ItlKIlIT  \ 

RY 

OVEKSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA      } 


H.  SCOFIELD. 


t[oii|e 


ft 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER. 


SNOW-BERRIES. 


A  BOOK    FOR  YOUNG   FOLKS, 


BY   ALICE     GARY. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 
1867. 


LIB. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


6332, 
sr\o 
PRELUDE. 


MY  little  men  and  women 
Who  sit  with  your  eyes  downcast, 
Turning  the  leaves  of  the  Snow-Berries 
Over  and  over  so  fast, 

I  know  as  I  hear  them  flutter 

Like  the  leaves  on  a  summer  bough, 

You  are  looking  out  for  the  story  about 
The  fairies,  —  are  n't  you,  now  ? 

And  so  it  is  wise  to  tell  you 
That  you  need  not  turn  so  fast, 

For  there  is  n't  a  single  fairy-tale 
In  the  book  from  first  to  last. 

My  Muse  is  plain  and  homespun,  — 
Quite  given  to  work-day  ways,  — 

And  she  never  spent  an  hour  in  the  tent 
Of  a  fairy,  in  all  her  days. 

She  is  strongest  on  her  native  soil ; 

And  you  will  see  she  sings 
Little  in  praise  of  elfs  and  fays, 

And  less  of  queens  and  kings. 


431 


VI         m  PRELUDE. 

"  Be  sure,  the  beautiful  violet 
In  the  grass  no  longer  glows, 

But  we  may  get  a-burning  yet, 
Some  little  lamp  of  a  rose ! " 

So  out  we  ran  to  the  meadows, 

Though  the  time  of  flowers  was  done, 

And  after  us  ran  our  shadows,  — 
Three  and  three,  and  one. 

All  up  and  down  the  rivulets 
That  shaved  so  close  to  the  sand, 

And  all  across  the  lowland  moss, 
And  across  the  stubble  land  ; 

And  deep,  and  deeper  into  the  wood, 
And  under  the  hedge-row  wall ; 

To  the  Callamus  Pond,  and  on  beyond, 
And  never  a  flower  at  all ! 

Footsore,  weary,  and  heart-sick, 

We  had  tramped  for  three  long  hours, 

When  a  voice  so  proud  cried  out  aloud, 
"  The  flowers  !  I  've  found  the  flowers !  " 

Fast  we  flew  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 

And  fast  and  faster  down, 
And  full  in  sight  limbs  shone  so  white 

From  the  thicket  dull  and  brown. 


PRELUDE.  Vli 

The  turf  slides  back,  and  farther  back, 
We  are  there,  we  are  under  the  trees ! 

And  our  eager  hands  are  breaking  the  wands 
Of  the  milk-white  snow-berries ! 

"We  had  had  a  tramp,  through  cold  and  damp, 

Of  three  right  weary  hours, 
But  we  did  not  grieve,  if  you  believe, 

That  our  berries  were  not  flowers  1 

But  each  with  a  sheaf  on  his  shoulder, 

As  white  as  the  whitest  foam, 
We  struck  across  the  lowland  moss, 

And  into  the  lights  of  home. 

So,  my  little  men  and  women, 

Who  sit  with  your  eyes  downcast, 
Turning  the  leaves  of  the  Snow-Berries, 

So  eagerly  and  so  fast, 

When  that  you  fail  to  find  the  tale 

Of  airy  fancy  bred, 
You  may  even  get  some  pleasure  yet 

From  the  stories  in  their  stead. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 

PAGE 

THE  SPOTTED  DEER i 

Two  BIRDS        .........  26 

To  THE  BOYS 28 

COUNTING  THE  CHICKENS 29 

ADVICE 30 

TALK  WITH  A  TREE 31 

A  NEW-YEAR'S  LESSON 32 

THE  BURNING  PRAIRIE 35 

PART    II. 

THE  GYPSY  FORTUNE-TELLER 39 

THE  COW-BOY 58 

LITTLE  ELLIE 60 

THE  BRICKMAKER'S  BOY 62 

FAIRY  FOLK 64 

LESS  OR  MORE 65 

FINE  TALK 66 

PART    III. 

THE  WEAVER'S  DAUGHTERS 69 

THREE  LITTLE  WOMEN 86 

PRETTY  is  THAT  PRETTY  DOES 88 

ELIJAH  AND  I 89 


CONTENTS. 


A  FISHERMAN «o 

AMY  TO  HER  FLOWERS 92 

AUTUMN  THOUGHTS 94 

PART    IV. 

THE  MAN  WHO  STOLE  A  Cow 97 

THE  POTTER'S  LUCK n8 

A  POET'S  WALK I2I 

THE  SNOW-FLOWER I22 

EASY  WORK         .        .        . I2A 

COURAGE I2e 

JENNY  AND  I I26 

PART    V. 

THE  CHARMED  MONEY I29 

To  A  STAGNANT  POND ice 

THE  POET  TO  THE  PAINTER ^g 

ONLY  A  DREAM !6o 

INVENTORY  OF  A  DRUNKARD 162 

HUNTER'S  SONG 163 

HAGEN  WALDER !6^ 

A  GOOSE  AND  A  CROW       .        .        .        .        .        ,        .  167 

PART    VI. 

THE  MAN  WITH  A  STONE  IN  HIS  HEART         .        .        .171 

CATY  JANE        .                        ^g 

THE  STREET  BEGGAR 201 

EVIL  CHANCE 202 

PLEA  FOR  THE  BOYS 203 

WORK ,  204 

COUNSEL r,        .        .        .205 


PART    I. 


THE    SPOTTED    DEEE 


THE    SPOTTED    DEER. 

rilHE  sun  was  growing  large  toward  the  setting, 
JL  and  the  light,  more  red  than  golden,  shin 
ing  more  and  more  faintly  along  a  great  mass  of 
woods  that  reached  backward  and  upward  along 
the  slope,  till  their  tops  seemed  to  touch  the  sky, 
almost,  and  the  red  and  scarlet  and  yellow  of  the 
foliage  —  for  it  was  autumn  —  to  be  giving  their 
colors  to  the  clouds,  when  an  adventurer  made 
fast  his  boat  on  the  shore  of  the  Ohio  immediately 
opposite  Little  Sandy  Creek;  and,  having  given 
some  directions  to  his  men,  proceeded,  accom 
panied  only  by  his  dog,  to  climb  the  ascent  along 
which  the  village  of  Lewisburgh  was  sprinkled. 

The  villagers,  as  the  stranger  soon  found,  were 
but  recent  settlers  on  the  land,  —  a  tract  of  twenty 
thousand  acres,  extending  along  the  river,  and 
granted  them  by  Congress  in  consideration  of  the 
frauds  and  impositions  practised  upon  them  in 
their  earlier  settlement  of  the  neighboring  town 
of  Galliopolis. 

They  were  mostly  French,  or  the  descendants  of 
French  emigrants,  —  a  gay,  primitive  sort  of  people, 


4  SNOW-BERRIES. 

half  thrifty,  half  negligent  in  their  habits,  and 
in  some  sort  refined  in  their  rudeness,  and  culti 
vated  in  their  ignorance. 

They  were  generally  farmers  in  a  small  way,  each 
having  a  few  acres  of  ground  attached  to  his  cottage, 
upon  which  he  raised  vegetables,  grapes,  and  corn. 

Almost  every  house  had  its  flower-garden,  its 
bird-cages  at  the  window,  and  its  pet  animals 
about  the  door,  and  here  and  there  in  the  out 
skirts  of  the  village  stood  a  tent  or  a  wigwam 
where  Indians,  to  whom  this  people  were  very 
friendly,  carried  on  their  trades,  —  making  baskets 
of  birch  bark,  bags  of  bead-work,  and  other  articles 
of  a  trifling  and  ornamental  character.  The  cot 
tages  were  generally  painted  or  whitewashed,  and 
together  with  the  tents  and  wigwams  gave  the 
town  a  romantic  and  picturesque  appearance. 

The  sunset  light,  falling  upon  and  brightening 
the  mists  of  the  river,  gave  a  charming  effect  to 
the  beauty  which  the  landscape  would  have  pos 
sessed  at  any  time ;  and  the  numberless  children 
engaged  in  careless  sports,  together  with  a  great 
variety  of  pets,  sporting  with  and  among  them, 
completed  the  enchantment  of  the  scene. 

We  have  said  the  grounds  about  the  houses 
were  devoted  chiefly  to  corn  and  vegetables ;  but 
the  peach-orchards  with  which  the  surrounding 
hills  were  planted  afforded  the  chief  source  of  in- 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  O 

come,  yielding  as  they  do  without  much  cultiva 
tion.  They  procured  them  coffee,  delf-ware,  cut 
lery,  and  such  simple  articles  of  finery  as  the  wo 
men  desired,  leaving  abundant  time  for  those 
pleasurable  and  healthful  activities  of  which  they 
were  so  fond. 

It  was  September,  with  one  of  those  mild,  cloudy 
atmospheres  that  have  the  balminess  of  spring,  and 
with  the  shadows  came  the  young  people  out  into 
the  gardens,  —  the  youths  wearing  blue  jackets 
and  trousers,  which  their  mothers  had  spun  and 
woven  for  them,  and  the  maidens,  party-colored 
dresses  made  in  the  gayest  fashions  which  mem 
ory  or  invention  could  suggest. 

Some  of  the  more  sober  matrons  brought  out 
their  wheels,  or  needle-work,  and,  under  the  trees, 
continued  sewing  and  spinning  till  the  last  light 
faded  from  the  hill-tops,  and  the  bright  stripes 
that  variegated  the  woods  were  lost  in  one  gen 
eral  and  sombre  hue. 

The  older  men  gathered  near  these  industrious 
housewives,  and,  as  they  chatted  of  days  gone  by, 
polished  their  guns  or  mended  their  fishing-tackle ; 
while  the  smaller  children  instructed  the  pet  ani 
mals,  of  which  we  have  spoken,  in  various  ingen 
ious  tricks,  until,  wearied  out,  they  sunk  on  the 
grass  among  them,  and  fearlessly  fell  asleep ;  so 
primitive  and  simple  were  the  habits  of  these 
people. 


6  SNOW-BERRIES. 

The  strange  gentleman,  as  he  leisurely  strolled 
from  one  part  of  the  village  to  another,  found  him 
self  the  object  of  much  respectful  admiration  and 
attention :  the  old  women  smiled,  for  he  was  hand 
some,  and  when  do  women  cease  to  give  such  rec 
ognition  to  handsome  faces?  the  old  men  lifted 
their  caps  with  an  exceeding  elegance  of  manner, 
and  smiled,  too,  a  little  less  graciously  perhaps, 
while  the  children  ran  up  to  him  and  made  over 
tures  toward  acquaintance  by  presents  of  flowers 
and  grapes.  On  the  shoulder  of  one  little  crea 
ture  a  tame  blue-jay  would  be  fluttering,  and  give 
its  noisy  welcome,  and  on  the  head  of  another  the 
paroquet,  making  such  signs  of  gladness  as  it  had 
been  taught  to  make,  and  the  summer  duck  and 
the  peacock,  meantime,  would  walk  before  him, 
spreading  out  their  brilliant  plumage  as  if  in  con 
tribution  to  his  pleasure. 

This  sociability  and  friendship  on  the  part  of  the 
children  and  their  pets  begot  in  the  heart  of  the 
stranger  a  sympathetic  and  kindly  interest  almost 
at  once,  and  his  address  so  won  upon  these  un 
sophisticated  people  that  they  extended  to  him  an 
.invitation  to  sup  with  them  under  the  trees,  and 
afterward  join  in  the  dance  of  the  evening. 

From  the  novelty  of  the  suggestion,  our  adven 
turer  entered  into  it  with  great  heartiness,  and  a 
vivacity  scarcely  exceeded  by  his  demonstrative 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  7 

entertainers.  Almost  every  house  contributed  its 
quota  of  milk,  wine,  and  peaches  to  the  little  fes 
tival,  while  he  himself  furnished  his  share  in  white 
biscuits,  which  he  caused  to  be  brought  from  the 
boat,  —  a  donation  than  which  nothing  could  have 
proven  more  acceptable,  the  settlers  having  sub 
sisted  for  several  months  continuously  on  bread 
composed  chiefly  of  maize. 

Never  was  supper  more  cheerful,  never  was 
gayety  more  harmless ;  and  as  for  the  stranger, 
it  was  rather  as  if  some  dear  friend  had  come  back 
to  his  home,  than  as  though  an  adventurer  were 
by  chance  amongst  them  for  an  hour. 

Three  youths  were  in  readiness  with  flutes  and 
violins,  to  strike  up  after  the  viands  had  received 
due  honor,  the  lads  and  lasses,  not  without  effort, 
having  restrained  their  impatience  for  more  congen 
ial  merriment  till  the  rural  repast  was  concluded. 

By  and  by  the  moon  came  up  in  full-orbed  glory. 
Hundreds  of  candles  fixed  in  the  trees  contrib 
uted  to  the  illumination ;  and  such  a  picture  of  rus 
tic  enjoyment  as  was  presented  we  can  only  hope 
to  outline  imperfectly.  The  women  put  away  their 
wheels,  the  men  their  guns  and  fishing-tackle  ; 
young  mothers  sung  their  babes  to  sleep,  and,  lay 
ing  them  on  the  grass,  covered  them  with  their 
shawls,  and  leaving  the  faithful  dogs  to  tend  them, 
ran  to  join  the  dance  with  hearts  as  light  as  their 


8  SNOW-BERRIES. 

footsteps.  All  seemed  young  alike.  Old  French 
men,  lively  as  their  grandchildren,  were  capering 
about  in  crimson  caps ;  while  their  wives,  in  dresses 
of  the  fashion  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,  gossiped 
with  one  another  with  still  more  animated  volubil 
ity  ;  and  the  young  people  of  both  sexes,  habited  in 
holiday  costumes,  lit  up  the  shady  places  with  their 
bright  blushes  as  they  "  tript  it  to  and  fro  on  the 
light  fantastic  toe."  Numbers  of  the  domestic  an 
imals  I  have  mentioned  followed  their  masters  con 
fidently  among  the  graceful  and  merry  circles,  con 
tributing  to  the  picturesque  and  inartificial  beauty 
of  the  scene. 

Among  these  animals  were  raccoons  and  opos 
sums,  both  as  tame  as  young  pigs ;  also  a  curious 
little  animal  called  the  ground-hog,  which  could 
never  be  so  far  tamed  by  any  amount  of  kindness 
as  not  to  snap  at  the  hand  that  offered  it  food ;  but 
the  most  remarkable  and  perhaps  interesting  of 
all  the  animals  was  a  huge  cub-bear,  that  was  as 
full  of  playful  tricks  as  a  monkey,  taking  from 
time  to  time  some  one  of  the  children  between  its 
paws,  and  rolling  and  tumbling  on  the  ground  with 
it  as  though  it  were  going  to  tear  it  to  pieces,  and 
may  be  devour  it  into  the  bargain. 

Some  of  the  Indian  women  and  children  drew 
near  and  gazed  on  the  scene  with  a  strange  mix- 
ture  of  the  grave  and  the  mirthful  in  their  faces ; 


THE  SPOTTED  DEER.  9 

and  it  was  remarkable  to  observe  with  what  fondness 
the  wild  creatures  —  birds  and  beasts  —  gathered 
about  them.  Here  a  youth  might  be  seen  with  a 
wolf  or  ground-hog,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  other 
animals,  between  his  legs,  and  there  a  young  squaw, 
with  all  her  black  hair  hidden  by  the  splendors  of 
the  wings  that  were  fluttering  on  her  shoulders. 

The  Indian  men  kept  mostly  at  a  distance,  but 
one  rawboned  hunter  was  persuaded  at  last  to 
perform  the  war-funeral  and  the  marriage-dance, 
both  of  which  he  gave  in  grand  style ;  and  so  the 
festivities,  or  the  more  mirthful  of  them,  came  to 
an  end.  The  old  people,  who  had  been  sitting  on 
the  benches  ranged  along  the  walks,  arose  and  went 
home,  chattering  and  gesticulating  as  they  went. 
The  mothers  took  up  their  babies,  and  the  dulcet 
symphonies  fell  to  a  lower  and  lower  key,  till  by 
and  by  they  faded  down  to  silence,  and  quiet  took 
up  her  melancholy  reign. 

The  heart  of  the  stranger  was  sad  as  he  took 
his  separate  way  to  the  boat  that,  curtained  with 
mists,  lay  hugging  the  shore ;  for  there  is  a  power 
sometimes  in  the  intercourse  of  a  few  hours  that 
holds  us  like  the  friendship  of  years,  and  makes  us 
feel  poor  and  lonesome  as  we  let  go  some  hand 
whose  single  pressure  has  given  us  the  assurance 
of  a  kindness  that  shall  assert  itself  in  eternity,  if 
not  in  time. 

i* 


10  SNOW-BERRIES. 

He  was  half  way  down  the  slope,  and  could  al 
ready  see  the  yellow-capped  heads  of  the  river- 
waves,  and  hear  the  whistling  and  talking  of  the 
distant  raftsmen  as  they  paddled  their  slow  way  to 
the  music  of  the  whippoor wills,  when  suddenly 
a  sound  unlike  what  his  ear  was  tuned  to  struck 
upon  his  attention  and  jangled  to  discord  all  his 
sweet  imaginings. 

It  was  not  a  sobbing  nor  crying,  but  a  helpless, 
hopeless  moaning  that  was  more  sorrowful  to  hear 
than  either,  for  it  indicated  a  heart,  not  so  much 
crushed  by  sudden  misfortune  as  wearied  out  by 
long  suffering. 

Standing  still  to  listen,  our  adventurer  perceived 
a  rude  habitation  by  the  roadside,  from  the  win 
dows  of  which  streamed  no  light,  and  about  which 
grew  no  flowers.  Indeed  there  was  not  so  much 
as  a  tree  or  a  patch  of  green  grass  between  the 
doorsill  and  the  highway. 

A  little  way  from  this  dreary  habitation,  seated 
on  a  mossy  log,  and  mournfully  caressing  two  beau 
tiful  deer  that  stood  on  either  side  of  her,  was  a 
young  girl,  apparently  in  deep  distress.  One  of 
these  deer  was  as  white  as  milk,  with  the  exception^ 
of  a  few  red  freckles  on  the  breast  and  one  of  the 
flanks  ;  the  other,  was  as  spotted  as  a  leopard. 
Both  seemed  exceedingly  fond  of  her ;  and  while 
the  one  was  rubbing  its  graceful  head  against  her 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  11 

bare  shoulder,  —  jangling  a  bell  which  was  at 
tached  to  a  shining  collar  it  wore  on  its  neck,  — 
the  other  licked  the  hands  which  lay  idly  folded  in 
the  girl's  lap. 

Her  feet  had  just  touched  that  marvellously  beau 
tiful,  but  also  sadly  uncertain  ground  where  child 
hood  and  womanhood  meet,  and  perhaps  the  time 
and  the  situation  lent  their  charm  ;  at  any  rate, 
she  had  that  about  her  which  drew  and  fixed  the 
eyes  of  the  stranger.  He  could  not,  perhaps,  have 
himself  expressed  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  inter 
est  awakened  in  him,  as  the  sorrowful  face  looked 
out  from  its  cloudy  tresses  with  an  expression  of 
gentle  appeal.  He  at  once  approached,  and,  under 
pretence  of  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  spotted 
deer,  made  a  proposal  for  their  purchase. 

Was  there  anything  under  the  sun  that  would 
induce  the  fairy-like  keeper  of  these  singularly 
beautiful  creatures  to  part  with  them  for  good  and 
all  ?  How  came  she  by  them  ?  0,  he  was  en 
chanted,  especially  with  the  more  spotted  of  the 
two. 

"  Tell  me,  will  you  part  with  them  for  any 
price  ?  "  And  bending  low,  the  stranger  waited  in 
silence  for  her  answer. 

"  0  no,  sir,"  replied  the  young  girl,  speaking 
English  with  an  accent  that  betrayed  her  French 
origin.  "  I  would  not  part  with  them  for  a  whole 


12  SNOW-BERRIES. 

lapful  of  gold  ;  they  are  my  only  friends  !  "  and 
she  caught  back  her  heavy  hair  and  bent  her  great 
dark  eyes  upon  the  stranger  as  she  spoke,  with  an 
earnestness  that  drew  him  almost  to  her  feet. 

"  Your  only  friends  !  how  can  that  be,  my  pretty 
one  ?  Surely  you  are  deserving  a  kinder  fate,"  he 
said. 

She  did  not  let  fall  the  gathered-up  tresses  to  con 
ceal  the  blushes  tangling  redly  along  her  cheeks. 
She  was  too  ingenuous,  and  too  unaffectedly  friend 
less  to  receive  from  the  stranger's  words  any 
meaning,  save  that  of  genuine  kindness.  On  the 
contrary,  she  told  him  all  her  little  story  with  a 
confiding  artlessness  and  simplicity  that  must  have 
touched  the  best  feelings  of  his  manhood,  and  made 
him  friendly  if  he  had  not  previously  been  so. 

When  she  was  no  higher  than  her  spotted  deer, 
she  said,  her  good  mother  died  and  was  carried 
away  and  left  on  the  hill  that  stood  up  so  dark  and 
so  high  between  the  yellow  woods  and  the  river,  — 
their  few  cows  and  simple  furniture  were  sold  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  a  long  illness,  and  procure 
something  a  little  better  than  charitable  support  for 
herself. 

So  slender  a  fortune  was  soon  exhausted,  of 
course,  and  our  story-teller,  whose  name  was  Eve 
line,  was  elbowed  and  jostled  about,  now  here,  now 
there,  —  now  in  the  way,  and  now  out  of  the  way, 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  13 

—  now  in  the  village,  and  now  perhaps  in  the  wig 
wam  of  some  Indian  hunter,  —  drudging  with  the 
squaws  part  of  the  time,  and  shooting  with  the  bow 
and  arrow  the  other  part.  In  the  spring-time  she 
spun  flax,  in  the  summer  she  carded  wool,  in 
the  time  of  the  grape  harvest  she  gleaned,  and,  in 
short,  did  what  she  could  find  to  do ;  for  it  is  the 
misfortune  of  poverty,  that  it  has  not  a  choice  even 
of  its  work. 

At  length  she  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  penuri 
ous  old  woman  with  whom  she  still  lived,  and  for 
whom  she  spun  all  day,  and  far  into  the  night 
sometimes. 

"  And  where  did  you  find  these  friends  ?  "  asked 
the  stranger,  seating  himself  on  the  mossy  log  a 
little  way  from  her,  and  doing  his  best  to  win  her 
favor  through  the  praises  he  bestowed  upon  her 
beautiful  pets. 

Then  he  told  the  two  deer  in  a  most  playful 
way,  what  blessed  fortune  had  befallen  them  when 
they  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  little  maid  who  was 
their  mistress,  and  asked  them  if  they  loved  her  as 
so  gentle  and  good  a  maiden  deserved  to  be  loved. 

"  0  yes !  "  answered  Eveline  for  them,  not  in  the 
least  embarrassed  by  the  implied  compliment.  "  0 
yes,  they  love  me  with  all  their  two  little  hearts  ! " 

Then,  as  she  knitted  up  her  long  hair  on  her  fin 
gers,  and  ravelled  it  out  again,  she  told  him,  with  a 


14  SNOW-BERRIES. 

generous  eagerness  to  oblige,  how  she  had  been 
used  to  bring  home  the  cows  from  the  meadow 
away  beyond  the  orchard,  and  farther  off  than  he 
could  see,  and  how  tired  her  feet  would  grow  in  the 
lonesome  path  for  the  want  of  company,  and  how, 
happening  one  night  to  meet  an  old  man  who  was 
peddling  fawns,  she  gave  her  ear-rings  in  exchange 
for  two  of  them,  hoping  by  her  spinning  she  should 
soon  be  able  to  replace  the  rings.  "  But  I  never 
have  been,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh  that  betrayed 
her  fondness  for  ornaments  and  the  sacrifice  she 
had  made  in  behalf  of  her  beautiful  favorites. 

"  Suppose  I  should  give  you  the  prettiest  pair  of 
ear-rings  in  the  world,  —  coral  drops,  with  gold 
setting,"  —  said  the  adventurer,  unknitting  her 
black  hair  from  her  hand  and  folding  it  within  his 
own  as  he  spoke,  "  what  would  you  give  me  in 
exchange,  —  the  two  deer  ?  " 

Eveline  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  tears  began  filling  up  her  beautiful  eyes  at  the 
thought  of  parting  from  her  only  companions.  "  No, 
no,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  cannot  give  them  up,  for 
you  must  know,  sir,  they  love  me,  and  even  the 
pretty  ear-rings  you  promise  me  could  not  buy  me 
that  ;  besides,  the  old  woman,  who  is  my  mis 
tress,  would  steal  them  from  me  as  she  did  my  red 
ribbon  to-night,  keeping  me  away  from  the  dance. 
0  sir,  it  was  breaking  my  heart  when  you  came." 


THE   SPOTTED  DEER.  15 

And  with  a  charming  simplicity  she  went  on 
asking  questions  about  the  evening  gayeties,  now 
bursting  into  tears  at  the  remembrance  of  the  sweet 
red  ribbon  with  which  her  hard  mistress  had 
adorned  her  own  ugly  person,  while  herself  was 
wrongfully  compelled  to  mope  at  home  ;  and  now 
laughing  and  blushing  at  the  stranger's  eloquently 
expressed  regrets  that  he  should  not  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  her. 

"Ah,  but  you  will  come  some  other  evening !  " 
she  cried,  with  the  eager  hopefulness  of  one  who 
had  never  known  a  pleasure  like  that ;  and  then 
she  said,  if  it  would  really  please  him  to  dance 
with  her,  she  would  weave  a  bright  garland  of 
flowers  for  her  head,  and  wear  her  blue  bodice  and 
scalloped  petticoat ! 

What  an  honor  and  delight  she  would  have,  to 
be  sure ;  and  would  n't  the  young  girls  all  envy 
her,  and  would  n't  the  old  woman  who  was  her  mis 
tress  grow  black  in  the  face  as  a  cloud,  with  angry 
irritation !  And  as  long  as  she  lived  the  memory 
of  that  night  would  be  like  a  blessed  candle  burn 
ing  away  behind  her  in  the  dark !  What  evening 
might  she  expect  to  see  him,  and  would  he  not 
come  very,  very  soon  ?  How  lovely  she  appeared 
as  she  waited  with  eager  uplifted  face  for  his  re 
ply,  her  cheeks  like  two  red  roses,  and  the  beating 
of  her  heart  making  the  ruffled  cape  that  was  tied 
across  her  bosom  flutter  again. 


16  SNOW-BERRIES. 

The  stranger  was  evidently  touched  by  the  sim 
ple  sincerity  of  the  fresh  young  beauty,  and  bent 
his  admiring  eyes  very  near  the  roselit  cheek  as 
he  explained  to  her  the  little  probability  there  was 
of  their  ever  meeting  again,  even  for  a  single 
evening. 

"  I  am  but  a  rude  traveller,  my  pretty  one,"  he 
said,  "in  love  with  adventure,  and  liking  the 
woods  and  the  fields,  the  birds,  the  beasts,  and 
the  curious  insects  of  the  air,  better  than  I  like 
the  homes  of  men  and  the  tameness  and  common 
ness  of  civilized  society." 

If  life  could  be  all  one  moonlit  evening,  and  all 
a  dance,  and  if  he  could  dance  with  her,  why  it 
would  be  very  nice  and  pleasant,  but  that  could 
not  be ;  his  boat  was  waiting  even  then  on  the 
near  river,  just  beyond  the  green  fringe  of  wil 
lows  that  she  could  see  so  plain,  —  waiting  to 
bear  him,  he  knew  not  where,  but  somewhere  far 
enough  away  from  her,  he  was  afraid. 

"No,  no,  my  child,"  —  and  he  sighed  as  he 
spoke,  —  "  it  is  not  likely  we  shall  ever  meet  again 
in  this  world ;  but  before  long  you  will  find  a  lover 
to  dance  with,  and  then  you  will  forget  you  have 
ever  seen  the  boatman  who  sits  beside  you  now,  I 
dare  say." 

"  0,  how  can  you  say  so  ? "  answered  Eveline. 
"  If  I  am  not  to  dance  with  you,  I  shall  never 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  17 

dance  at  all,  but  spin  and  spin  till  I  spin  me  a 
shroud."  Then  she  hung  her  head  and  made  no 
effort  to  conceal  the  tears  that  came  to  her  in 
nocent  eyes  ;  and  her  lately  happy  heart  ceasing  to 
flutter  in  her  bosom,  like  a  bird  that  is  learning  to 
fly,  lay  there  as  still  and  as  heavy  as  lead,  "'if  I 
had  only  the  red  ribbon  to  give  you,  so  that  some 
times  when  you  happened  to  see  it  you  might  re 
member  me!"  she  said,  at  last;  "but  the  old 
woman  has  stolen  my  ribbon,  and  that  is  the  only 
ornament  I  ever  had,  except  the  ear-rings,  that  I 
parted  with  as  I  told  you.  Ah,  it  is  too  bad  that 
I  have  nothing  to  give  you  !  " 

Then  the  stranger  told  her  not  to  fret  because 
the  old  woman  had  stolen  her  ribbon.  "  And  for 
that  matter,  you  shall  have  another,"  he  said,  "  if 
you  will  only  give  me  the  deer.  I  can  send  it 
with  the  ear-rings,  you  know."  And  then  he  told 
her,  seeing  that  she  was  not  quite  satisfied,  lightly 
touching  her  fair  young  head  as  he  said  it,  that  he 
would  take,  of  choice,  one  of  the  long  shining 
tresses  that  fell  adown  her  shoulder.  "And 
would  you  indeed  prize  a  lock  of  my  hair  ? " 
cries  Eveline-,  in  innocent  surprise,;  "cut  it  off 
then ! "  And  she  leaned  her  head  down  to  him, 
singling  one  long  rippling  curl  from  the  rest. 

Such  simple  confidence  was  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  and  rising,  the  stranger  said  in  an  altered 


18  SNOW-BERRIES. 

tone  that  he  must  not  deprive  her  of  the  shining 
tress,  much  as  he  would  prize  it,  but  that  he  still 
hoped  she  would  be  persuaded  to  give  him  one  of 
her  beautiful  pets,  —  the  one  with  only  the  spotted 
flank,  or  the  one  with  the  skin  like  a  leopard,  — 
just  as  she  chose.  "  I  know  how  much  you  love 
them,  but  for  my  sake !  "  he  went  on,  —  and  then  he 
said,  no,  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  those 
coral  ear-rings  all  set  in  gold  that  he  was  going 
to  send  back  to  her  !  And  while  she  hesitated,  he 
said,  perhaps  just  to  say  something,  that  he  would 
have  the  spotted  deer ;  and  he  fell  to  coaxing  and 
petting  it  with  all  his  might.  The  deer,  being 
very  tame,  responded  to  his  kind  words  by  going 
close  to  him  and  eating  grass  from  his  hand,  and 
by  a  variety  of  fond  and  playful  actions  which  it 
had  been  taught. 

"  And  would  you  really  send  me  the  ear-rings, 
and  such  lovely  ones  as  you  say  ?  "  inquired  the  girl, 
almost  persuaded,  as  it  seemed.  Then  her  eyes 
fell,  and  in  a  changed  voice  she  said :  "  But  why, 
sir,  do  you  choose  the  spotted,  and  not  the  white 
deer?  I  think,  of  the  two,  I  would  rather  part 
with  the  white  one." 

And  putting  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  the 
spotted  deer,  she  drew  it  close  to  her  bosom,  and 
began  prattling  to  it  in  the  tenderest  manner.  No, 
no,  she  could  not  part  with  that !  The  white  one 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  19 

was  not  so  fond  of  her,  and  was  surely  not  so  pret 
ty.  Why,  Spotty  would  follow  her  all  daylong. 
She  almost  thought  he  understood  every  word 
she  spoke,  and  sometimes  he  would  even  come  into 
the  house  and  lie  by  the  side  of  her  little  low  bed 
all  the  night. 

Then  she  made  a  confidant  of  her  beautiful 
Spotty,  and  told  him  that  his  little  mistress  loved 
him  better  than  anything  else  in  all  the  world ! 
Sell  him  for  ear-rings,  indeed  !  .  No,  not  though 
they  were  as  big  and  as  splendid  as  the  new  moon ! 
Then  she  did  actually  kiss  the'forehead  of  the  deer, 
and  whispered  something  so  close  in  his  ear  that 
the  stranger  could  not  hear  what  she  said,  but 
something  that  was  doubtless  very  pretty,  if  the 
dumb  thing  could  only  have  understood  it. 

"  And  so  you  like  your  spotted  deer  the  best  ?  " 
the  stranger  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  the  atten 
tion  of  the  young  girl. 

"  0  yes,  so  much  the  best !  Don't  you  see  how 
fond  of  me  he  is  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  you  may  keep  your  Spotty.  I  think, 
on  the  whole,  I  prefer  the  hind.  Come,  my  beau 
ty  ! "  and  he  took  the  ear  of  the  white  deer  in  his 
hand,  as  though  he  would  lead  it  away. 

Instantly  the  girl  pushed  off  his  hand  and  took 
the  head  of  the  white  hind  in  her  lap.  "  NG,  no ! 
my  poor  Whity,  your  little  mistress  will  not  see 


20  SNOW-BERRIES. 

you  abused  that  way,  not  she  !  "  Then  to  the 
stranger :  "  She  is  used  to  caresses,  I  assure  you, 
and  not  to  having  her  ears  pulled." 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  she  was  not  pretty, 
and  you  did  not  care  for  her,"  answered  the 
stranger  ;  "  and  I  thought,  too,  she  was  my  prop 
erty,  and  not  yours  !  Did  you  not  bargain  her 
away  for  the  ear-rings  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  bargain  Whity  away  at  all ;  it 
was  Spotty  I  bargained  away,  and  then  I  took  Spot 
ty  back,  so  that  neither  one  is  yours." 

Then  she  began  talking  to  Whity  just  as  she 
had  done  to  Spotty  before.  "  Suppose  you  are  not 
so  very  pretty,"  she  said ;  "  is  your  little  mistress 
going  to  sell  you  away  for  that !  No  indeed  !  her 
heart  is  not  a  lump  of  ice,  and  she  could  not  be  so 
cruel,  not  for  all  the  ear-rings  under  the  sun. 
Is  it  your  fault  that  you  are  not  beautiful  ?  No,  it 
is  not  your  fault,  but  you  are  beautiful !  0,  so 
beautiful !  there  never  was  a  deer  in  all  the  world 
so  beautiful  as  my  own  little  Whity !  " 

She  could  part  with  Spotty  best ;  he  was  sturdy 
and  independent,  and  did  not  need  her  half  so 
much  as  poor  timid  Whity. 

Then  the  stranger  said  she  might  choose  between 
her  deer,  but  one  of  them  he  must  have.  And 
then  he  drew  a  picture  of  Eveline  in  her  blue  bod 
ice  and  scalloped  petticoat,  dancing  on  the  green 


THE   SPOTTED  DEER. 


21 


with  the  very  handsomest  of  all  the  young  fellows 
in  the  village.  "  And  what  would  you  not  give, 
then,  for  the  coral  ear-rings  ?  "  he  concluded. 

Here  was  a  dazzling  temptation.  Would  the 
stranger  be  very  good  to  poor  Spotty,  just  as  good 
and  kind  as  was  his  own  mistress  ?  To  be  sure  he 
would  ;  never  deer  in  the  world  fared  half  so  roy 
ally  as  Spotty  should  fare. 

After  some  further  talk,  it  was  concluded  be 
tween  them  that  he  should  take  Spotty  and  send 
back  to  her  the  ear-rings  from  the  next  landing- 
point.  Then  he  took  from  his  finger  a  small  gold 
ring ;  would  Eveline  wear  that  in  token  of  his 
promise,  and  perhaps,  too,  as  a  reminder  of  him 
self?  It  was  a  poor  trifle,  but  he  had  nothing 
better  to  offer. 

Ah  yes,  Eveline  would  take  the  ring,  and  wear  it, 
—  not  in  token  of  his  promise,  and  not  to  remind 
her  of  a  stranger.  He  would  never  seem  a  stranger 
to  her,  and  she  would  require  nothing  to  remind  her 
of  him  ;  but  for  all  that,  she  would  take  the  ring. 

So  he  took  her  hand,  and  when  he  had  put  the 
ring  on  it,  said  it  was  now  time  to  say  good  by. 

But  Eveline  kept  the  hand,  like  the  sweet,  simple 
child  that  she  was,  saying  she  would  walk  with  him 
to  the  river-side,  and  watch  the  vanishing  boat  till 
it  was  quite-  out  of  sight.  "  And  then  I  will  go 
back  alone,"  she  said ;  "  and  then,  and  then,  — why 
then  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  do  !  " 


22  SNOW-BERRIES. 

So  they  walked  together,  the  two  deer  following, 
through  the  mingling  lights  and  shadows,  and  to 
ward  the  misty  borders  of  the  river,  which  they 
reached  at  last,  and  could  see  through  the  swaying 
boughs  of  the  willows  the  waiting  boat. 

A  few  moments  they  stood  in  silence  on  the  shore, 
Eveline  little  guessing  the  charming  picture  she 
made,  —  the  misty  moonlight  all  round  her,  and 
the  graceful  head  of  her  spotted  deer  beneath  her 
hand,  while  the  white  one  stood  a  little  way  off 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  surrounding  mist. 

"  Be  sure  I  will  take  the  best  care  of  your  beau 
tiful  pet,"  said  the  stranger,  as  he  was  about  leap 
ing  into  the  boat,  "  for  your  sake,  my  dear  child, 
if  not  for  his ;  so  you  need  not  fear  to  trust  him 
away  from  you."  '9 

Eveline  was  sobbing  now,  sobbing  so  she  could 
hardly  speak  ;  and  all  at  once  she  threw  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  her  favorite,  and,  holding  it  fast, 
said  she  could  not  let  it  go  ;  he  might  have  the 
white  one,  but  the  spotted  one  she  must  keep, 
she  really  did  love  him  best  after  all ! 

"  Then  Whity  it  shall  be ;  come,  Wliity,  my 
beauty,  come  !  "  And  the  stranger  began  to  coax 
and  pet  the  white  hind  ;  but  she  would  not  come, 
shying  off  and  snuffing  the  air  instead.  Then  call 
ing  two  of  his  men,  he  told  them  to  bring  her 
aboard  by  main  force. 


THE   SPOTTED  DEER.    '  23 

"  No !  "  cries  the  little  mistress  in  an  angry  voice. 
"  She  shall  go  of  her  own  free  will,  or  she  shall  not 
go  at  all.  I  will  never  stand  by  and  see  her  pulled 
and  dragged  from  me  as  though  siie  were  the  worst 
creature  in  the  world,  instead  of  the  best." 

"  Then  persuade  her  yourself,"  said  the  stranger ; 
"  you  know  how  to  coax  her  into  anything,  I  dare 
say." 

"  Yes,  but  I  will  not  persuade  her  to  leave  me  ! 
I  have  not  so  much  love  that  I  can  afford  to  do 
that.  If  she  is  a  mind  to  follow  you,  I  must  part 
with  her,  that  is  all ;  but  I  will  never  coax  her  to 
do  so,  —  never,  never !  " 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  go  alone,  after  all," 
said  the  stranger,  sadly.  "  And  you,  my  pretty 
one,  remember  that  you  cannot  have  your  white 
hind  for  an  ornament  when  the  day  of  dancing 
comes  again." 

"  I  shall  never  want  to  dance,"  answered  Eve 
line,  "  not  if  I  cannot  dance  with  you  !  "  And  she 
lifted  her  face  to  him,  all  eloquent  with  its  innocent 
sorrow. 

Then  he  told  her  that  her  life  could  not  be  more 
lonely  than  his,  going  through  the  wide  world, — 
in  wilderness  places,  and  in  deserts,  with  only  two 
or  three  rude  men  for  companions. 

By  this  time  the  white  hind  had  come  back  to 
its  mate  and  its  mistress,  and,  drawing  its  head 
close  to  her,  Eveline  asked  it  in  whispers  if  it 


24  SNOW-BERRIES. 

would  like  to  go  with  the  stranger  and  sail  away 
down  the  beautiful  river,  pointing  as  she  did  so  to 
the  boat.  It  was  perhaps  in  answer  to  the  motion 
of  her  hand  that  the  hind  immediately  stepped 
nearer  to  the  shore.  "Ah,  then,  she  is  yours, 
sir,"  said  Eveline,  every  word  a  separate  tremble ; 
"  but  I  don't  want  the  ear-rings.  I  can't  sell  any 
thing  I  love."  Then  she  gave  him  special  charge 
about  the  feeding  and  general  keeping  and  care,  — 
indeed,  a  mother  who  was  parting  with  her  baby 
could  hardly  have  been  more  tender  in  her  en 
treaties  and  directions.  "  The  poor  thing  is  so 
used  to  me,"  she  said,  "  what  will  it  do  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  you  can  do,"  answered 
the  boatman,  "  since  you  love  your  pet  so  very 
much.  You  can  go  along  and  be  its  keeper." 

Eveline  was  smiling  and  blushing  and  trembling 
all  at  once  now,  and  the  boatman  went  on :  "I 
see  only  one  difficulty,  I  am  afraid  the  pretty  crea 
ture,  being  so  fond  of  the  mistress,  will  not  care 
at  all  about  the  master !  " 

"  But  I  will  teach  her  to  love  you !  "  cries  the 
little  maiden,  eagerly. 

"  And  how,  my  lady  of  the  woodland,"  answered 
the  boatman,  "  will  you  contrive  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Just  by  loving  you  myself,"  she  said.  "  There 
is  no  teaching  like  example,  you  know."  And  she 
looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  sweet  sincerity,  that 
charmed  the  stranger  more  than  he  had  ever  been 


THE   SPOTTED   DEER.  25 

charmed  by  any  beautiful  bird  or  bright  flower,  or 
by  anything  lovely  that  he  had  ever  seen. 

She  would  go,  to  be  sure  she  would  go,  "  But 
0,  sir,  how  are  you  to  get  me  over  this  wet 
sand-bar  that  lies  between  the  bank  and  the 
boat  ?  "  There  was  witchery  in  the  trust  and  the 
timidity,  alike. 

"Why,  this  way,  my  pretty  mistress  of  the 
fawns,"  he  answered  ;  and  putting  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  sprung  with  her  clear  across  the  sand 
bar  and  into  the  boat.  Of  course  the  deer  fol 
lowed,  and  directly  all  three  were  sailing  away 
together  toward  the  golden  colors  of  the  sunset, 
the  master  of  the  boat  singing  as  they  sailed, — 

"Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down, 
Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew,  — 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 
On  a  pair  so  true." 

But  there  is  no  need  to  linger  any  longer ;  my 
young  reader  no  doubt  guesses  the  end  of  the 
story,  and  can  make  for  himself  a  picture  of  the 
boat,  as,  dividing  the  silver  waves  below,  and  the 
yellow  moonlight  above,  it  bore  away  the  artless 
and  gentle  keeper  of  the  spotted  and  white  deer, 
to  the  realization,  let  us  hope,  of  brighter  dreams 
than  even  the  promised  ear-rings  suggested.* 

*  This  little  story  is  based  upon  an  account  which  I  found  in  a 
volume  printed  about  sixty  years  ago,  and  entitled  "  Travels  in 
America." 

2 


26  SNOW-BERRIES. 


TWO    BIRDS. 

IN  the  blithe  and  budding  weather 
Of  an  April-time  of  yore, 
Two  wild-birds  sat  together 
In  the  peach-tree  at  my  door. 

And  each  was  gayly  furnished, 
And  in  beauty  all  complete, 

From  the  topknot  brightly  burnished 
To  the  rosy  little  feet. 

Now  under  shadows  winging, 
And  now  hopping  forth  to  view, 

To  the  other  each  was  singing,  — 
Thus  the  prouder  of  the  two,  — 

Thus  only,  "  Pretty  !  Pretty  !  " 

In  a  low,  caressing  strain, 
While  in  answer,  "  Sweety  !  Sweety ! " 

Softly  sounded  back  again. 

The  buds  to  flowers  were  starting, 
And  the  young  leaves  came  in  sight, 

While  they  stayed  together  courting 
In  the  peach-tree  ;  but  one  night 


TWO  BIRDS.  27 

They  vanished.     Swift  with  duties 

Ran  the  time  into  the  past, 
Till  I  found  my  truant  beauties, 

As  I  knew  I  should,  at  last. 

Making  tender,  twittering  hushes, 

That  were  sweet  as  any  words, 
Flying  in  and  out  the  bushes 

With  a  flock  of  little  birds. 

The  snow  stayed  all  unmelted, 

And  the  winds  of  winter  beat 
On  the  boughs  that  lately  tilted 

Under  rosy  little  feet, 

When  I  heard  a  bird  thus  crying, 
From  the  cold  and  frozen  ground, 

To  the  mate  above  him  flying, 

Half-distracted,  round  and  round  :  — 

"  My  wings  are  stiff  and  sleety, 

I  am  dying  in  my  bed,  — 
I  am  dying,  darling."     "  Sweety." 

That  was  every  thing  she  said. 


28  SNOW-BERRIES. 


TO    THE    BOYS. 

DON'T  you  be  afraid,  boys, 
To  whistle  loud  and  long, 
Although  your  quiet  sisters 
Should  call  it  rude  or  wrong. 

Keep  yourselves  good-natured, 

And  if  smiling  fails, 
Ask  them  if  they  ever  saw 

Muzzles  on  the  quails  ! 

Or  the  lovely  red-rose 

Try  to  hide  her  flag, 
Or  the  June  to  smother  all 

Her  robins  in  a  bag ! 

If  they  say  the  teaching 

Of  nature  is  n't  true, 
Get  astride  the  fence,  boys, 

And  answer  with  a  Whew  ! 

I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  boys, 
No  water-wheel  will  spin, 

Unless  you  set  a  whistle 
At  the  head  of  every  pin. 


COUNTING  THE   CHICKENS.  29 

And  never  kite  flew  skyward 

In  triumph  like  a  wing 
Without  the  glad  vibration 

Of  a  whistle  in  the  string. 

And  when  the  days  are  vanished 

For  idleness  and  play, 
JT  will  make  your  labors  lighter 

To  whistle  care  away. 

So  don't  you  be  afraid,  boys, 

In  spite  of  bar  and  ban, 
To  whistle,  —  it  will  help  you  each 

To  make  an  honest  man. 


COUNTING    THE    CHICKENS. 


COMI^  Joe  !  come,  Johnny  !  the  chickens  are  out, 
As  true  as  I  am  alive  ! 
Let  me  count,  —  one,  two,  three,  four,  — 
O,  if  I  can  find  but  one  more 

Of  the  beauties,  that  will  be  five  ! 

Just  look  and  see  how  they  hop  about  ! 

And  see  what  a  pretty  thing 
The  little  gray  one  is,  and  oh  ! 
There  is  another  one  !  see  it,  Joe, 

With  its  head  through  its  mother's  wing  ! 


30  SNOW-BERRIES. 

My  dainty  darlings,  be  still,  be  still ! 

Just  a  minute  till  I  can  see 
Which  is  prettiest,  —  that  with  down 
Softly  yellow  and  striped  with  brown, 

Or  that  with  the  golden  bill. 

That  one  is  cunning,  with  back  and  breast 

Black  as  a  raven,  and  so  small,  — 
No  bigger  than  one  of  its  mother's  eggs, 
And  the  tiniest  little  rosy  legs,  — 
I  hardly  saw  it  at  all. 

I  will  double  up  my  hand  to  a  nest, 

Afraid  though  I  am  of  the  mother  hen, 
And  put  them  into  it  one  by  one, 
The  gray,  the  yellow,  the  black,  and  dun, 
And  see  which  is  prettiest  then ! 


ADVICE. 

DO  not  look  for  wrong  and  evil,  — 
You  will  find  them  if  you  do  ; 
As  you  measure  for  your  neighbor 
He  will  measure  back  to  you. 

Look  for  goodness,  look  for  gladness, 
You  will  meet  them  all  the  while ; 

If  you  bring  a  smiling  visage 
To  the  glass,  you  meet  to  smile. 


TALK   WITH   A   TREE.  31 


TALK  WITH  A  TREE. 

STANDING  straight  up  in  the  glory 
Of  God's  sunshine,  O  my  tree, 
I  would  know  thy  wondrous  story,  — 

Wilt  thou  speak  and  tell  it  me  ? 
With  head  in  the  sun  and  feet  in  the  ground, 
My  heart  it  keepeth  sweet  and  sound, 
And  evermore  I  grow  and  grow, 
And  this  is  all  I  knoV. 

Rough  and  wild  and  many-jointed, 

Thou  art  clothed  with  gracious  hues, 
And  thy  body  is  anointed 

Nightly  with  the  pleasant  dews. 
The  sun  and  the  storm  I  gladly  greet, 
And  my  heart  it  keepeth  sound  and  sweet, 
And  my  head  is  high  and  my  root  is  low, 
And  this  is  all  I  know. 

All  thy  blossoms  come  in  season,  — 

In  their  time  thy  fruits  come  in,  — 
Canst  thou  give  to  me  a  reason  ? 

Thou  dost  neither  toil  nor  spin. 
Deep  I  strike  my  roots  in  the  ground, 
And  my  heart  it  keepeth  sweet  and  sound, 
And  my  buds  they  bloom,  and  my  fruits  they  glow, 
And  this  is  all  I  know. 


32  SNOW-BERRIES. 

From  thy  roots  in  silence  pushing 

Through  the  dark  and  gloomy  ground,  — 
From  thy  boughs  with  blossoms  blushing,  — 

From  thy  heart  so  sweet  and  sound, 
Thou  seemest  to  tell  me,  tree  of  mine, 
We  are  not  all  earthy  nor  all  divine, 
But  sown  in  corruption  to  be  raised 
Incorruptible,  —  God  be  praised. 


A  NEW-YEAR'S   LESSON. 

THE  house  was  little  and  low  and  old, 
But  the  logs  on  the  hearth  burned  bright, 
And  two  little  girls  with  locks  of  gold 

Were  playing  in  the  light ; 

And  their  hearts  were  glad  and  their  laughter  gay, 
For  the  morrow  would  bring  the  New-Year's  day. 

The  house  was  little,  the  house  was  low ; 

But  cheerily  shone  the  light 
Out  of  the  window  and  over  the  snow 

(For  the  ground  with  snow  was  white), 
Cheerily  shimmered  and  shone  about, 
As  if  there  were  fire  within  and  without. 

An  ancient,  gnarled,  and  knotty  tree 
Hung  all  about  the  eaves ; 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  LESSON. 

So  the  little  house  just  seemed  to  be 

A  bird's-nest  in  the  leaves  ; 
And  the  little  girls,  in  homespun  dressed, 
Just  like  the  nestlings  of  the  nest. 

And  still  as  the  wind  with  sharp  teeth  snapped 

A  leaflet  sere  and  brown, 
Right  merrily  their  hands  they  clapped 

To  see  it  sliding  down, 
Past  the  firelight's  ruddy  glow, 
To  the  fire  that  seemed  to  be  in  the  snow. 

«  O  mother,  mother ! "  they  cried  with  a  will," 
Their  cheeks  to  the  window  pressed, 

And  peeping  shyly  over  the  sill, 
Like  birdlings  over  the  nest, 

"  See  how  it  flutters  and  flies  about ; 

It  thinks  there  is  fire  in  the  snow,  no  doubt." 

And  then  they  laugh  and  shout  with  glee, 

And  tell  how  wild  it  whirls, 
And  call  it  crazy  as  it  can  be, 

"  You  foolish  little  girls ! " 
The  mother  sadly  and  sweetly  said, 
Laying  a  hand  on  each  golden  head :  — 

"  Suppose  that  leaf  a  crazy  thing, 

My  darlings ;  even  suppose 
It  thought  the  firelight  glimmering 

Out  there  upon  the  snows, 

2*  0 


34  SNOW-BERRIES. 

The  same  as  the  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
Why,  that  were  not  a  cause  for  mirth ! " 

And  then  she  says,  as  pearl  on  pearl 

Her  pale  cheek  trickles  down : 
"  It  makes  me  think  of  the  beggar-girl 

We  saw  in  the  streets  of  the  town ; 
Her  hand  as  little  and  brown  as  a  leaf,  — 
Just  such  a  picture  of  houseless  grief. 

"  By  some  sharp  breath  of  fortune  whirled 
Away  from  her  mother's  knee, 

She  is  left  to  flutter  about  the  world, 
The  same  as  the  leaf  of  a  tree  ; 

No  roof  for  her,  my  dears,  you  know, 

Nor  fire,  except  the  fire  in  the  snow. 

"  In  her  poor  hand,  so  brown  and  cold, 

No  New- Year's  gift  will  shine." 
Dropped  low  was  each  shining  head  of  gold. 

"  I  wish  I  could  give  her  mine  ! " 
Cry  both  little  girls,  as  they  see  the  glow 
Of  their  New- Year's  fire  outside  in  the  snow. 


THE  BURNING  PRAIRIE.  35 


THE  BURNING  PRAIRIE. 

HHHE  prairie  stretched  as  smooth  as  a  floor, 
-*-      Far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
And  the  settler  sat  at  his  cabin  door 

With  a  little  girl  on  his  knee, 
Striving  her  letters  to  repeat, 
And  pulling  her  apron  over  her  feet. 

His  face  was  wrinkled,  but  not  old, 

For  he  held  an  upright  form, 
And  his  shirt-sleeves  back  to  the  elbow  rolled, 

They  showed  a  brawny  arm ; 
And  near  in  the  grass,  with  toes  upturned, 
Was  a  pair  of  old  shoes,  cracked  and  burned. 

A  dog  with  his  head  betwixt  his  paws 

Lay  lazily  dozing  near, 
Now  and  then  snapping  his  tar-black  jaws 

At  the  fly  that  buzzed  at  his  ear ; 
And  near  was  the  cow-pen,  made  of  rails, 
And  a  bench  that  held  two  milking-pails. 

In  the  open  door  an  ox-yoke  lay, 

The  mother's  odd  redoubt, 
To  keep  the  little  one  at  her  play 

On  the  floor  from  falling  out ; 
While  she  swept  the  hearth  with  a  turkey- wing, 
And  filled  her  tea-kettle  at  the  spring. 


36  SNOW-BERRIES. 

The  little  girl  on  her  father's  knee, 

With  eyes  so  bright  and  blue, 
From  A  B  C  to  X  Y  Z 

Had  said  her  lesson  through, 
When  a  wind  came  over  the  prairie-land, 
And  caught  the  primer  out  of  her  hand. 

The  watch-dog  whined,  the  cattle  lowed, 

And  tossed  their  horns  about ; 
The  air  grew  gray  as  if  it  snowed ; 

"  There  will  be  a  storm,  no  doubt ! " 
So  to  himself  the  settler  said ; 
"  But,  father,  why  is  the  sky  so  red  ?  " 

And  the  little  girl  slid  off  his  knee, 

And  all  of  a  tremble  stood ; 
"  Good  wife,"  he  cried ;  "  come  out  and  see ! 

The  clouds  are  as  red  as  blood ! " 
"  God  save  us ! "  cried  the  settler's  wife, 
"  The  prairie 's  afire !   We  must  run  for  life ! " 

She  caught  the  baby  up.     "  Come !  come ! 

Are  ye  mad  ?  to  your  heels,  my  man ! " 
He  followed,  terror-stricken,  dumb, 

And  so  they  ran  and  ran ; 
Close  upon  them  the  snort  and  swing 
Of  buffaloes,  madly  galloping. 

The  wild  wind  like  a  sower  sows 
The  ground  with  sparkles  red, 


THE   BURNING  PRAIRIE.  37 

And  the  flapping  wings  of  bats  and  crows 

Through  the  ashes  overhead, 
And  the  bellowing  deer  and  the  hissing  snake,  — 
What  a  swirl  of  terrible  sounds  they  make ! 

No  gleam  of  the  river  water  yet ! 

And  the  flames  leap  on  and  on ! 
A  crash,  and  a  fiercer  whirl  and  jet, 

And  the  settler's  house  is  gone  ! 
The  air  grows  hot.     "  This  fluttering  curl 
Would  blaze  like  flax,"  says  the  little  girl. 

And  as  the  smoke  against  her  drifts, 

And  the  lizard  slips  close  by  her, 
She  tells  how  the  little  cow  uplifts 

Her  speckled  face  from  the  fire  ; 
For  she  cannot  be  hindered  from  looking  back 
At  the  fiery  dragon  on  their  track. 

They  hear  the  crackling  grass  and  sedge, 

The  flames  as  they  whir  and  rave ; 
On,  on !  they  are  close  to  the  water's  edge ! 

They  are  there,  breast- deep  in  the  wave ! 
And  lifting  their  little  ones  high  o'er  the  tide,  — 
"  We  are  saved,  thank  God !  we  are  saved ! "  they  cried. 


PART    II. 

THE  GYPSY  FORTUNE-TELLER. 


THE  GYPSY  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

WHERE  the  bend  of  a  beautiful  river  kept 
bright  and  green  a  little  spot  of  this  goodly 
earth  longer  than  it  stayed  bright  and  green  else 
where,  there  used  to  be  made,  year  after  year,  at 
the  season  when  the  leaves  turn  yellow  and  the 
mosses  brown,  a  gypsy  camp. 

When  the  frost  first  bit  the  grass,  and  the  rivu 
lets  hid  themselves  away,  expectation  stood  a-tip- 
toe  among  the  young  people,  and  so  continued,  till 
some  farmer's  boy,  perchance,  riding  home  from 
mill,  along  the  river  road,  would  see  the  smoke  of 
their  fires  curling  and  rippling  high  above  the  tree- 
tops,  and  hurrying  home,  would  set  the  household 
astir  with  the  news,  —  "  The  gypsies  have  come  !  " 

Then  there  would  be  whispering  and  laughing 
among  the  girls,  and  a  missing  of  the  lads  when 
the  family  circle  drew  about  the  evening  fire  ;  for 
it  was  the  habit  of  the  youth  of  both  sexes  to  steal 
out  to  the  gypsy  camp  and  have  their  fortunes  told  ; 
and  many  a  cock  that  had  been  used  to  crow  in  the 
morning,  and  tell  the  sleepy  inmates  of  the  farm 
house  it  was  time  to  get  up  and  set  the  breakfast 


42  SNOW-BERRIES. 

in  order,  and  yoke  the  steers,  had  to  boil  in  some 
gypsy  pot  to  pay  for  it.     Among  the  vagrants  of  the 
camp  was  an  ugly  old  woman,  known  to  the  peo 
ple  of  the   neighborhood  by  the  name  of  "  Mother 
Crow."     She  seldom  strayed  from  among  the  tents, 
and  was  usually  to  be  found,  till  after  the  middle 
of  the  night,  peeping  and  muttering  over  a  great 
kettle  of  simmering  herbs,  of  wonderful  power,  if 
she  were  to  be  believed  ;  and  indeed  some  persons 
said,  who  had  watched  her  stirring  her  mess  with 
a  crooked  and  thorny  stick,  that  they  had  seen- 
sparkles  of  unearthly  light  rising  out  of  it  and  set 
tling  along  her  forehead  like  a  row  of  stars.     How 
ever  this  were,  she  was  certainly  more  feared  and 
believed  in  than  all  her  tribe  put  together.     It  may 
be  that  her  wisdom  was  made  up  chiefly  of  cun 
ning,  but  no  matter,  — it  passed  current;  it  may 
be  too  that  the  snow-white  hair,  straggling  from 
beneath  her  cap  of  rabbit-skins,  and  veiling  the  in 
tense  glitter  of  her  snaky  eyes,  had  somewhat  to 
do  with  her  fascination.     She  was  very  tall,  and 
upright  as  an  oak  sapling,  but  her  dimensions  in 
other   respects  no  one  could  arrive  at  very  defi 
nitely,  as  she  was  generally  loosely  wrapt  in   a 
big  blue  blanket,  with  a  border  of  scarlet  stripes. 
Many  a  night  the  home-going  fisherman  rowed 
softly  ashore  by  the  gypsy  camp,  to  learn  of  Mother 
Crow  whether  his  sweetheart  were  false  or  true,  and 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  43 

paid  her  with  the  choice  treasure  of  his  net ;  and 
it  generally  happened  that  he  was  richer  than  bo- 
fore  ;  such  exceeding  worth  is  there  in  a  happy 
heart,  and  Mother  Crow  was  apt  to  see  the  bright 
side  of  things. 

She  could  instantly  tell,  so  she  used  to  say,  when 
she  stepped  on  the  graves  of  persons  who  had  been 
buried  a  hundred  or  more  years,  but  she  could  not 
tell  whether  the  ground  she  trod  on  were  to  hold  a 
coffin  on  the  morrow  or  not.  She  could  see  future 
events,  she  used  to  say,  but  not  the  time  at  which 
they  would  take  place,  and  so  she  got  along  very 
well  with  her  prophecies. 

Some  persons,  too  good  or  too  great  to  seek  a 
gypsy  fortune-teller  themselves,  would  gladly  listen 
to  the  gossip  about  her  ;  or  if  they  happened  near 
the  camp  at  night,  would  stop  and  peep  over  the 
shoulder  of  some  lad  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  as 
she  sat  inside  a  ring  of  eager  upturned  faces,  tell 
ing  all  the  girls  and  boys  whether  their  sweethearts 
had  black  eyes  or  blue,  and  whether  they  would 
marry  and  make  a  journey  across  the  sea,  and  come 
back  with  a  great  deal  of  gold,  and  live  happy  for 
ever  afterwards,  or  whether  they  would  marry,  get 
gold,  and  be  happy  without  the  great  journey. 

And  it  is  no  wonder  these  people  thus  stole  a 
glimpse  of  the  strange  woman,  for  she  made  such 
a  picture  as  one  does  not  see  every  day  in  the 


44  SNOW-BERRIES. 

week,  nor  every  month  in  the  year,  nor  every  year 

in  ten. 

Among  those  who  visited  her  the  oftenest,  and 
upon  whom  she  levied  the  heaviest  taxes,  was  an 
old  man  who  lived  in  a  ruinous  house  by  the  river 
side,  alone,  and  whose  strange  ways  had  shut  him 
quite  without  the  pale  of  society,  — in  truth,  he 
was  supposed  to  have  lost  his  wits,  and  was  treated 
accordingly,  when,  by  chance,  his  neighbors  came 
in  contact  with  him.  The  columns  that  once  held 
up  the  porches  of  his  house  fell  down  one  after 
another,  and  lay  where  they  fell ;  the  once  beau 
tiful  garden  ran  to  weeds,  and,  instead  of  flower- 
stalks,  thistles  stood  up  very  high  and  proud ; 
spiders  made  looms  in  the  windows,  and  wove  there 
all  the  day  long,  making  curtains  so  thick  it  could 
hardly  be  told  at  night  whether  or  not  the  old 
man's  candle  were  alight. 

And  the  truth  is,  nobody  cared  whether  or  not 
his  candle  was  alight.  He  wore  a  shirt  of  patched 
flannel,  trousers  of  an  old  fashion,  and  shoes  quite 
distinct  from  the  modem  style  ;  and  instead  of  rid 
ing  in  a  fine  carriage  he  walked  on  foot.  Perhaps 
it  was  not  altogether  his  fault  that  he  was  shy  and 
unneighborly,  for  certain  it  is,  nobody  stopped  to 
inquire  whether  it  were  or  not ;  and  Mother  Crow 
herself,  skinny  and  haggish  as  she  was,  created  a 
lighter  sensation  of  awe  than  he.  His  hair  hung 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  45 

over  his  shoulders  white  as  snow,  and  his  beard 
fell  down  his  bosom  in  a  profusion  of  silver  waves, 
that  contrasted  strangely  with  the  black  and  won 
derfully  inquisitive  eyes,  and  made  the  children 
hang  their  heads  when  he  came  near,  and  older 
people  too  sometimes,  for  there  was  in  his  face,  it 
must  be  owned,  a  look  that  seemed  to  accuse  men. 
Indeed,  he  avoided  men  and  women  too,  as  far  as 
might  be ;  but  when  he  could  not  help  seeing  them 
he  was  civil  in  spite  of  the  accusing  look,  which,  if 
it  had  been  examined  closely,  would  perhaps  have 
been  found  to  be  distrust  rather  than  accusation, 
after  all. 

"  I  don't  like  him !  "  people  used  to  say ;  and  it 
may  be  that  they  did  not  stop  to  think  why  they  did 
not  like  him,  and  it  may  be  that  they  would  not 
have  seen  much  to  like  if  they  had  stopped  to  think, 
for  we  cannot  very  well  see  what  is  lovable  in  any 
body  till  we  first  love  them.  Love  not  only  sees 
existing  good  qualities,  but  creates  good  qualities. 

All  sorts  of  strange  stories  were  told  of  this  man, 
and  in  connection  with  everything  belonging  to 
him  ;  this,  among  the  rest. 

One  of  the  chimneys  of  his  house  had  fallen,  or 
had  been  blown  down  by  the  wind,  perhaps,  and 
the  story  ran  that  it  had  been  tumbled  down  by 
the  witches  who  were  in  the  habit  of  seeking  the 
crazy  man's  chamber  by  this  means.  Then  it  was 


46  SNOW-BERRIES. 

reported,  too,  that  a  well  of  once  sweet  waters  in 
his  door-yard  had  grown  brackish,  and  had  petrified 
an  ox  that  had  chanced  to  fall  into  it,  and  that  his 
horns  might  be  seen  any  day  sticking  out  of  the 
well's  mouth ! 

It  is  strange  that  such  things  should  ever  have 
been  believed ;  but  let  a  story  once  get  afloat,  no 
matter  how  improbable,  and  it  will  hold  its  place 
a  long  time  in  spite  of  everything. 

The  strangest  and  most  improbable  of  all  the 
stories  related  to  the  wife  of  the  "  crazy  man,"  — 
for  there  was  a  time  when  his  beard  was  not  white, 
when  his  flannel  shirt  was  not  patched,  and  when 
he  had  as  pretty  a  wife  as  was  to  be  seen  in  all  the 
county-side.  Most  of  his  neighbors  could  remem 
ber  very  well  when  the  fallen  chimney  stood  up 
red  and  proud  as  could  be  ;  when  at  night  there 
were  lights  shining  through  all  the  windows,  so 
dark  and  gloomy  now ;  and  when  the  cedar  beams 
along  the  porches,  against  which  hung  the  gray 
muddy  nests  of  wasps,  were  bright  and  sweet,  and 
the  rows  of  pillars  white  as  milk.  They  could  tell 
about  having  sometimes  seen  a  gentle-faced  and 
golden-haired  woman  walking  in  the  garden,  and 
how  all  the  roses  bowed  their  heads  down  toward 
her  as  she  went ;  and  about  the  little  child  that  she 
used  to  lead  by  the  hand  ;  and  they  could  whisper 
too,  and  they  often  did  whisper  dark  surmises  as 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  47 

to  what  became  of  the  woman  and  the  child,  for 
they  disappeared  one  after  the  other,  and  were 
never  seen  or  heard  of  more. 

There  were  even  hints  of  murder,  and  some 
people  said  that  the  beautiful  woman  and  child 
were  lying  petrified  away  down  in  the  well  under 
the  stone  ox  ! 

But  these  things  were  only  spoken  under  breath, 
for  all  that  was  certainly  known  was,  that  a  fair- 
faced  woman  and  a  lovely  little  child  used  to  be 
seen  about  the  grounds,  and  that  they  were  seen 
no  more ;  but  that  anything  mysterious  was  con 
nected  with  their  disappearance  nobody  dare  posi 
tively  assert.  But  it  was  asserted  and  believed 
that  often,  at  night,  strange  and  unearthly  sounds 
were  heard  about  the  old  house,  and  in  the  end  it 
came  to  be  thought  that  the  old  house  was  haunted 
with  witches,  if  with  nothing  worse  ;  so  that  often 
when  these  noises  were  supposed  to  prevail,  the  more 
superstitious  of  the  people  would  shake  their  heads, 
and  whisper,  apart  from  the  hearing  of  the  chil 
dren,  "  They  are  the  echoes  of  the  love-ditties  the 
crazy  man  used  to  sing  to  the  beautiful  woman  !  " 
And  then  the  windows  would  be  put  down  and  the 
Bibles  opened  and  prayers  offered,  and  sometimes, 
after  all  these  pious  ceremonies,  a  horseshoe  would 
be  hung  over  the  door-case  to  protect  the  household 
against  witch-work,  so  strangely  are  the  minds  of 


48  SNOW-BERRIES. 

men  and  women  constituted.  And  at  such  times 
the  frightened  children  would  look  wonderingly  up 
into  the  faces  of  the  old  folks,  and  ask  to  have  the 
candles  trimmed  anew,  or  that  another  stick  might 
be  added  to  the  fire. 

The  story  ran  too,  that  often  of  winter  nights, 
when  the  moon  shone  bright  on  the  snow  that  had 
been  drifted  into  fantastic  but  smooth  curves  along 
the  meadows,  and  in  the  ragged  edges  of  the 
woods,  there  used  to  be  heard  a  footstep  going 
along  their  edges,  —  tramp,  tramp,  —  and  in  the 
morning  it  would  be  seen  that  the  snow  was  writ 
ten  all  over  with  letters  which  the  crazy  man  had 
traced  with  his  finger,  and  the  letters  spelled  one 
name,  over  and  over,  sometimes  a  thousand  times, 
and  that  name  was  Hesther  ;  but  whether  it  had 
been  borne  by  the  missing  woman,  or  whether  it 
was  a  fantasy  of  his  bewildered  brain,  was  left  to 
conjecture. 

The  only  person  in  the  world  for  whom  this  sad 
old  man  appeared  to  cherish  any  kindly  regard 
was  Mother  Crow.  Under  the  straggling  boughs 
of  an  apple-tree  he  at  length  built 'her  a  house,  a 
very  goodly  house  for  a  gypsy,  with  a  roof  and  door 
of  pine  planks  ;  albeit  there  were  gaps  between  the 
logs  of  which  it  was  composed  more  than  wide 
enough  for  the  moon  to  peep  through  and  see  what 
was  going  forward.  Many  a  basket  of  bright  ap- 


THE   GYPSY   FOKTUNE-TELLER.  49 

pies  he  bore  to  Mother  Crow's  house  on  his 
shoulder,  and  many  a  bag  of  corn  he  emptied  on 
her  broad  clay  hearth  ;  and  once,  at  least,  during 
every  period  of  encampment,  he  might  be  seen 
leading  thither  by  the  horns  a  fat  heifer  or  steer, 
and  then  be  sure  there  was  great  feasting  among 
the  gypsies. 

It  was  noticeable  that  during  the  stay  of  these 
people  the  old  man  always  became  more  like  other 
men,  that  ho  would  smile  when  he  met  his  neigh 
bors,  and  sometimes  speak  to  them,  not  only  cheer 
fully,  but  with  great  good  sense. 

It  was  strange  his  lucid  intervals  should  al 
ways  occur  at  the  time  of  the  gypsies'  encamp 
ment,  people  used  to  say,  but  they  never  inquired 
into  the  mystery,  for  the  world  generally  takes  but 
little  interest  in  its  old  crazy  men  that  live  in 
ruined  houses. 

Scarcely  a  midnight  came  and  went  that  did  not 
find  the  crazy  man  by. the  gypsy's  fire,  bowing  his 
white  head  beneath  the  skinny  hand  of  the  old  for 
tune-teller,  and  listening  to  her  muttering,  which 
contained  always  one  and  the  same  story ;  and  of 
course  the  story  was  all  about  the  crazy  man's 
wife  and  child,  for  she  pretended  that  she  could 
look  back  into  the  past  and  see  what  had  hap 
pened  to  them,  and  she  commonly  begun  her  story 
something  after  this  fashion  :  — 


50  SNOW-BERRIES. 

"  I  see  a  beautiful  river  with  a  border  Qf  fine 
trees,  and  moonlight  shining  along  the  billows; 
I  see  herds  of  cattle  grazing,  and  a  great  house 
with  porches  white  as  snow ;  and  now  there  comes 
to  the  porch  a  fair  young  woman,  with  curls  down 
her  shoulders  bright  as  the  sunshine,  and  eyes  blue 
as  a  morning  sky  in  May.  She  wanders  toward 
the  river-bank,  leading  by  the  hand  a  child  like 
herself,  but  even  more  beautiful,  —  her  eyes  being 
like  the  color  of  the  morning-glory,  and  the  fingers 
fair  as  the  fingers  of  a  lily. 

"  And  now  there  leaps  from  his  boat  on  the 
river  wave  a  man,  sleek  and  bright  and  stealthy 
as  a  leopard ;  he  approaches  her  with  smiles  and 
gentle  words,  but  his  feet  are  shod  with  evil,  and 
his  heart  is  full  of  all  manner  of  dark  things.  Now 
he  talks  to  her  and  his  voice  is  soft  and  low  as  the 
voice  of  the  wind  when  it  talks  to  the  violet ;  and 
now  he  sings,  and  the  song  of  the  nightingale  is 
not  so  sweet." 

At  this  point  of  the  story  the  old  woman  would 
stop  and  tell  her  eager,  trembling  listener  that  she 
could  not  see  any  more  until  he  had  again  crossed 
her  palm  with  silver,  and  so  having  got  more 
money  she  would  go  on. 

"  All  the  scene  that  I  lately  saw  is  vanished,  but 
I  see  the  same  woman  walking  in  the  fields  alone. 
It  is  a  wild  windy  night,  and  the  clouds  are  flying 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  51 

across  the  face  of  the  moon,  and  the  autumn  leaves 
are  blowing  about  withered  and  dry,  and  still  the 
woman  walks  on  alone  until  she  comes  to  a  black 
thorn-tree,  under  which,  on  a  little  heap  of  stones, 
sits  a  gypsy  fortune-teller,  —  a  wicked  woman  as  I 
can  see  by  her  wolfish  face,  and  her  long,  lithe, 
snake-like  body ;  and  now  she  crosses  the  palm  of 
this  old  hag  with  silver,  and  she  tells  her  a  tale 
that  is  like  a  fairy  tale,  of  the  splendid  fortune 
that  is  waiting  for  her  in  a  far-off  country,  — how 
she  shall  eat  from  plates  of  gold,  sleep  on  a  bed 
of  swan's  down,  wear  her  hair  braided   up  with 
diamonds,    have   gowns   with    hems   embroidered 
with  pearls,  ride  in  a  gilded  coach,  and  have  a 
hundred  lovely  maids  of  honor  to  be  about  her  and 
to  tend  her  day  and  night,  and  all  just  for  going 
with  the  stranger  who  sings  to  her  so  sweetly,  and 
who,  she  says,  is  a  man  of  honor  and  authority  in 
his  own  country.     And  the  eyes  of  the  fair  woman 
are  dazzled,  and  she  seems  almost  persuaded  to  go 
away  with  the  leopard-like  man,  and  leave  forever 
her  comfortable  home  and  her  good  husband." 

And  here  again,  Mother  Crow  would  pause  in 
her  story,  and  profess  that  she  could  not  see  any 
thing  more  until  she  had  more  silver,  and  then  she 
would  say  that  she  saw  a  boat  sailing  down  the 
river,  and  seated  within  it  three  persons,  a  man 
and  a  woman  and  a  child,  and  that  the  three 


52  SNOW-BERRIES. 

looked  like  the  other  three  which  she  had  seen 
before. 

Then  the  shadows  would  come  between  her  and 
the  boat,  and  her  vision  would  grow  dim,  so  she 
would  say,  and  not  till  the  old  man  had  paid  her 
more  money  could  she  see  anything  further. 

Sometimes  she  would  sit  for  half  an  hour  hold 
ing  out  her  rabit-skin  cap,  and  not  till  she  heard 
something  clink  in  it  would  she  speak  one  word. 
Then  at  last  she  would  profess  to  see  the  beautiful 
woman  sick  and  dying,  and  to  see  the  child,  grown 
to  be  a  beautiful  young  girl  now,  standing  by  her 
bedside ;  then  she  could  see  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
closed,  and  a  long  funeral  procession ;  and  after 
this,  no  matter  by  what  prices  the  crazy  man 
sought  to  buy  her  vision,  Mother  Crow  could  see 
no  further;  though  she  always  professed  to  be 
growing  in  prophetic  wisdom,  and  quite  sure  that 
at  the  time  of  the  full  moon,  or  at  the  falling  of 
the  November  rain,  or  at  some  other  designated 
season,  she  should  be  able  to  trace  further  the  his 
tory  of  the  young  girl. 

And  this  was  the  secret  of  her  power  over  the 
crazy  man,  as  he  was  called  ;  and  by  this  means  it 
was  that  the  entire  gypsy  camp  fared  so  well  year 
after  year.  But  the  more  liberal  the  old  man  was, 
the  more  the  fortune-teller  demanded ;  and  at  last 
one  night  when  the  fumes  of  her  bitter  stew  had 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLEK.. 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  53 

gotten  into  her  brain  a  little  more  than  common, 
it  may  be,  she  professed  to  see  the  fate  of  the  beau 
tiful  young  girl.  She  saw  that  she  was  living  in 
the  castle  of  a  nobleman,  and  that  she  was  become 
a  lovely  woman,  with  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes 
like  her  mother's,  and  that  she  saw  little  shining 
letters  along  her  forehead  which  spelled  the  name 
of  Hesther.  But  in  what  castle  Hesther  was,  and 
how  she  was  to  be  obtained  by  the  old  man,  she 
would  not  tell  until  twelve  pots  of  rum  had  been 
ranged  along  her  clay  hearth,  with  a  beehive  full 
of  new  honey  at  their  head.  This  request  was  no 
sooner  complied  with,  however,  than  Mother  Crow 
declared  that  her  vision  was  become  dim,  and  that 
the  anxious  inquirer  must  wait  another  day.  Of 
course  she  had  her  way ;  but,  alas !  things  turned 
out  as  she  little  expected. 

Having  feasted  to  excess  on  the  honey  and  rum, 
she  lay  down  in  her  cabin  to  sleep,  and  feeling 
presently  that  the  lease  of  her  mercies  was  run  out, 
and  that  the  pains  of  death  were  hold  of  her,  she 
called  the  old  man  back,  and  taking  from  her 
bosom  the  picture  of  his  wife,  she  gave  it  into  his 
hand,  and  also  a  piece  of  yellow  parchment  written 
over  with  clumsy  and  curious  characters  ;  but  the 
eyes  of  love  can  decipher  hard  things,  and  the  old 
man  read  all  the  parchment  contained,  as  if  it  had 
been  written  by  a  scribe. 


54  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Mother  Crow  watched  him  as  he  read,  and  at  the 
close  of  the  reading  lifted  up  her  hands  and  hid  the 
light  from  her  eyes,  even  before  death  hid  it,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall ;  so  fearful,  sooner  or 
later,  are  the  effects  of  wrong-doing. 

It  was  all  a  lie  that  Mother  Crow  had  been  tell 
ing  the  old  man,  after  all.  There  had  never  been 
a  man  who  was  sweet-Voiced  and  sleek  and  shining 
as  a  leopard,  there  had  never  been  a  little  boat 
that  rocked  on  the  river  of  nights,  and  there  had 
never  been  any  running  away,  first  or  last.  She 
herself  had  stolen  the  child  in  the  hope  of  getting 
money  from  the  father  by  telling  him  wljere  it  was, 
and  how  he  could  get  it  again ;  but  when  it  came 
to  pass,  as  it  did,  that  the  mother  pined  for  her 
child  till  she  became  crazy,  and  wandered  away 
and  was  lost  to  her  house  and  her  husband,  and  to 
all  who  knew  her,  she  was  afraid  to  say  aught 
about  the  child  lest  she  herself  should  be  accused 
of  murder.  She  was  afraid  even  to  keep  it  any 
longer,  and  pinning  to  its  dress  a  paper  that  said 
it  had  been  stolen  and  was  to  be  given  up  if  the 
father  should  ever  come  for  it,  or  any  one,  bearing 
a  certain  parchment  which  the  said  paper  men 
tioned,  she  one  dark  night,  having  taken  it  a 
long  way  off,  shut  it  up  in  a  rich  man's  garden, 
where  the  gardener  would  be  likely  to  hear  its  cries 
and  take  it  to  the  rich  man's  house,  as  indeed  ho 


THE   GYPSY   FORTUNE-TELLER.  55 

did,  and  here  the  girl  had  lived  and  was  now 
grown  to  be  a  beautiful  woman.  She  had  meant 
always  to  tell  the  truth  some  time  or  other,  but  had 
put  it  off  month  after  month  and  year  after  year, 
knowing  that  her  palm  would  no  more  be  crossed 
with  silver  by  the  old  man  if  he  once  came  to  know 
where  his  child  really  was.  And  the  story  was 
never  told  until  Death  came  and  put  her  soul  in 
torture  that  pressed  the  secret  out  of  her  lips. 

And  the  red  leaves  drifted  in  a  red  heap  over  the 
grave  of  Mother  Crow,  and  the  rain  beat  out  the 
fires,  and  the  pot  of  bitter  herbs  simmered  no  more, 
and  the  winter  snow  fell  and  lay  in  smooth  curves 
about  the  stone  house,  for  there  was  no  name  writ 
ten  on  it  now,  and  no  crazy  man  anywhere  to  be 
seen.  All  the  windows  were  dark  as  they  could  be, 
the  fallen  pillars  lay  one  across  another  along  the 
porches,  and  the  chimney,  in  a  stack  of  ruins, 
frowned  from  the  roof,  and  at  night  not  a  sparkle 
was  seen  to  rise  above  it.  Now  it  was  that  the 
corpse  of  the  old  suspicion  floated  up  on  the  stream 
of  gossip  again,  more  black  and  malignant  than 
ever. 

The  crazy  man,  in  addition  to  his  other  crimes, 
it  was  asserted,  had  poisoned  Mother  Crow,  and, 
lest  they  who  saw  him  should  murder  him,  had 
shut  himself  in  his  own  house,  and  was  slowly  dy 
ing  of  starvation  and  cold.  Some  even  declared 


56  SNOW-BERRIES. 

that  they  could  hear  him  making  the  night  hideous 
by  his  hungry  howls. 

But  no  man  and  no  woman  sought  out  the  truth, 
or  made  one  effort  to  alleviate  the  miserable  con 
dition  of  the  old  man. 

All  at  once,  and  as  by  magic,  the  stone  house 
was  transformed  into  its  original  grandeur  ;  the 
columns  stood  in  white  rows  along  the  porches,  the 
windows  shone  with  curtains  of  crimson  stuff, 
mixed  with  satin,  white  as  snow,  —  the  stack  of 
ruins  stood  up  in  a  high,  proud  chimney,  and  above 
it,  at  night,  there  glittered  a  shower  of  sparkles  red 
as  roses. 

And  every  day,  riding  along  the  river  road,  in  a 
coach  with  shining  panels,  was  seen  the  man  that 
his  neighbors  called  crazy  when  he  walked  along 
the  road.  Magnificent  horses,  in  the  most  dazzling 
furniture,  drew  the  carriage  ;  and  by  the  man's 
side  sat  a  lovely  young  woman,  who  folded  his 
mantle  tenderly  about  him  with  her  sweet  white 
hands. 

But  the  most  marvellous  thing  I  have  to  tell  is 
the  change  that  came  to  the  hearts  of  the  people 
when  they  saw  the  gold  trappings  of  the  horses, 
and  the  diamonds  on  the  white  hands  of  the  young 
woman,  —  whose  name  was  Hesthcr,  and  the  er 
mine  that  lined  the  mantle  of  the  old  man.  The 
proudest  of  them  bowed  down  as  he  went  by,  and 


THE   GYPSY  FOKTUNE-TELLEB.  57 

saluted  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  king,  and 
his  wisdom  and  beauty  were  the  continual  themes 
of  conversation  and  admiration.  The  white  hair 
and  beard  that  used  to  be  thought  so  frightful  were 
considered  regal  now,  and  the  austerity  that  used 
only  to  excite  derision  fitted  him  right  royally  now. 

In  short,  no  man  could  be  found  to  own  he  had 
ever  believed  the  rich  man  to  be  crazy.  On  the 
contrary,  every  one  was  loud  in  the  declaration 
that  it  had  always  been  his  belief  that  the  owner  of 
the  stone  house  was  some  great  person  in  disguise, 
and  a  very  wise  person  too.  And  those  who  had 
affirmed  most  vehemently,  when  the  stone  house 
was  ruinous  and  dark,  that  they  could  hear  its 
crazy  inmate  howling  with  hunger,  were  the  first 
to  make  feasts  for  him,  and  illuminations,  now  that 
his  house  was  full  of  light,  and  his  board  beautiful 
and  shining  with  plate. 

Not  a  soul  could  be  found  to  own  he  had 
ever  believed  the  rich  man's  well  had  a  stone  ox  in 
it,  and  only  one  or  two  simple  and  old-fashioned 
old  women  would  admit  that  they  had  ever  heard 
the  story. 

Every  one  who  could  afford  it  built  a  porch 
against  his  house ;  white  beards  became  the  fash 
ion,  and  the  rich  man's  advice  was  asked  upon  the 
most  trivial  occasions. 

Thus  ends  the  story  of  Mother  Crow  and  the 

3* 


58  SNOW-BEKRIES. 

Crazy  Man,  and  I  hope  the  reader  has  been  taught 
by  it  two  things,  —  first,  that  conscience  will  find 
out  your  sins,  though  you  hide  them  under  heaps 
of  gold,  mountain  high ;  and  secondly,  that  those 
who  make  feasts  for  you  and  do  you  the  humblest 
reverence  while  your  mantle  is  lined  with  ermine, 
will  be  the  first  to  cry  out  Crazy  !  and  see  you 
starved  if  your  chimney  chances  to  tumble  down. 


THE   COW-BOY. 

DAY  after  day,  when  the  tawny-bills 
Were  twittering  through  the  boughs, 
"  Sook !   Book  ! "  across  the  sunset  hills 
He  would  call  his  mother's  cows. 

"  Whee !  whee ! "  and  then  the  thrum  and  fall 

Of  the  clumsy  meadow-bar, 
And  we  knew  he  had  found  them  one  and  all, 

«  Mottle,"  and  "  Rose,"  and  "  Star." 

A  merry  cry,  and  then  a  hush, 

And  then  a  merrier  ring,  — 
He  had  found  a  bird's-nest  in  a  bush, 

And  was  happier  than  a  king. 


THE   COW-BOY.  59 

«  Plash  and  plash ! "  and  "  Sook,  sook  ! " 

And  tramp  and  trill  again,  — 
He  had  brought  his  cows  across  the  brook, 

And  was  singing  up  the  lane. 

Spiugspang !  whish !  in  the  bucket  cool 

And  burnished  silver-bright, 
And  then  he  had  gotten  his  milking-stool, 

And  was  milking  with  all  his  might. 

Clump!  clatter!  spinkle!  span! 

He  had  done  with  the  milking-chore, 
And  was  setting  each  shining  and  shallow  pan 

On  the  watery  "  spring-house  "  floor. 

Days  went  and  came,  and  came  and  went, 

And  over  the  sunset  hills 
No  more  his  cheerful  call  was  blent 

With  the  twittering  tawny-bills. 

But  in  the  dingle  and  in  the  dell 

Deep  silence  held  the  rule ; 
The  little  lad  that  we  loved  so  well 

Was  gone  to  the  grammar-school. 

Years  came  and  went,  and  went  and  came ; 

He  had  made,  or  mastered  fate, 
For  the  little  cow-boy's  humble  name 

Was  the  name  that  ruled  the  state. 


60  SNOW-BERRIES. 


LITTLE    ELLIE. 

DARLING  Little  Ellie, 
Stout  of  heart  and  limb,  — 
What,  I  often  wonder, 

"Will  the  future  make  of  him  ? 

Where  will  be  the  roses 

That  keep  his  cheeks  so  red, 

When  years  with  their  temptations 
And  trials  shall  have  fled  ? 

Stirring  with  the  morning, 
As  if  he  owned  the  farm ; 

On  the  floor  at  sunset, 
Sleeping  on  his  arm : 

Torn  and  faded  jacket, 

Feet  brown  and  bare, 
Sunshine  laughing  in  his  eyes, 

And  tangled  in  his  hair. 

In  his  little  bucket, 

Helping  milk  the  cows,  — 
Biding  on  the  horses, 

Tumbling  down  the  mows ; 


LITTLE  ELLIE.  61 


Wading  in  the  water, 
Working  mimic  mills,  — 

Chasing  through  the  meadows, 
Rolling  down  the  hills ; 

Making  strings  of  elm-bark, 
Stealing  mother's  yarn,  — 

All  to  see  his  kite  fly 
Higher  than  the  barn ; 

Planning  long  aforetime, 
With  ambitious  pride, 

How,  when  snow  has  fallen, 
He  '11  have  a  sled  and  ride. 

Gravely  puzzling  over 

Each  childish  little  plan,  — 

Working,  and  tugging, 
And  scheming  like  a  man. 

Now  upon  grandfather's  knee, 
Listening  with  delight 

To  the  stories  that  are  new 
Every  day  and  night. 

Now,  with  joyous  make-believe 

In  despite  his  frown, 
Turning  chairs  to  railcars, 

And  riding  into  town. 


(32  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Ah,  't  is  wisely  well  for  us 
That  we  cannot  see 

What  in  years  that  are  to  come 
He  will  grow  to  be. 


THE   BRICKMAKER'S   BOY. 

THE  ground  of  the  brick-yard  is  burning  and  bare ; 
By  the  hedgerow  are  plenty  of  shady  spots, 
But  Ralph,  when  he  gets  a  white  apron  to  wear, 
Plays  in  the  mortar,  and  shapes  it  to  pots. 

That  is  his  mother's  house  over  the  hill, 

With  the  pitcher  of  pinks  in  the  window,  so  sweet, 

And  Ralph  is  her  darling,  and  sets  at  his  will, 
In  the  soft  bricks,  the  prints  of  his  bare  little  feet. 

Poor  soul !  —  she  is  homely  and  wrinkled  and  old, 
And  work  is  her  portion,  but  what  does  she  care 

For  herself,  since  no  neighbor  has  need  to  be  told 
That  her  darling  has  beauty  enough,  and  to  spare  ! 

Low  down  on  the  limbs  of  the  prickly  sweet-brier 
Are  handfuls  of  roses,  but  still  he  will  push 

His  cheek  through  the  thorns,  for  the  one  red  as  fire 
That  grows  out  of  reach  at  the  top  of  the  bush. 


THE  BRICKMAKER'S  BOY.  63 

Sometimes  the  old  brickmaker,  sunburnt  and  bent, 
Will  tug  him  about  on  his  shoulder  awhile, 

Whereat,  growing  restless  instead  of  content, 
He  scarcely  repays  the  good  man  with  a  smile. 

He  makes  of  a  stray  piece  of  cedar  a  shelf, 

Sometimes,  where  he  sets  up  his  pots  in  the  sun, 

And  then,  growing  vexed  with  his  work  or  himself, 
He  breaks  them,  and  tramples  them  down,  every  one. 

From  the  time  when  the  locust  puts  on  the  white  mass 
Of  his  odorous  plumes,  till  in  summer's  decay, 

His  bright  yellow  jacket  he  throws  on  the  grass 
And  braves  the  bleak  wind,  he  is  busy  each  day. 

I  know  it  is  all  in  his  own  wilful  way, 
Yet  sigh,  as  I  see  him  a-working  so  hard, 

His  hands  and  his  apron  so  heavy  with  clay 
He  scarcely  can  toddle  about  in  the  yard. 

My  heart  often  says  to  me,  wherefore  employ 
Your  thoughts  in  a  fashion  so  pitiful  ?  then, 

Reflecting,  I  see  in  the  brickmaker's  boy 
A  type  of  the  work  and  the  wisdom  of  men. 


64  SNOW-BERRIES. 


FAIRY    FOLK. 

THE  story-books  have  told  you 
Of  the  fairy-folk  so  nice, 
That  make  them  leather  aprons 

Of  the  ears  of  little  mice, 
And  wear  the  leaves  of  roses 

Like  a  cap  upon  their  heads, 
And  sleep  at  night  on  thistle-down, 
Instead  of  feather-beds ! 

These  stories,  too,  have  told  you, 

No  doubt  to  your  surprise, 
That  the  fairies  ride  in  coaches 

That  are  drawn  by  butterflies ; 
And  come  into  your  chambers, 

When  you  are  locked  in  dreams, 
And  right  across  your  counterpanes 

Make  bold  to  drive  their  teams ; 
And  that  they  heap  your  pillows 

With  their  gifts  of  rings  and  pearls  ; 
But  do  not  heed  such  idle  tales, 

My  little  boys  and  girls. 

There  are  no  fairy  folk  that  ride 

About  the  world  at  night, 
Who  give  you  rings  or  other  things 

To  pay  for  doing  right. 


LESS  OR  MORE.  65 

But  if  you  do  to  others  what 

You  'd  have  them  do  to  you, 
You  '11  be  as  blest  as  if  the  best 

Of  story-books  were  true. 


LESS    OR    MORE. 

SEVEN  trees  grew  beside  our  door, — 
We  used  to  wish  they  were  six,  or  four ! 
Seven,  —  each  standing  so  close  to  each, 
The  boughs  from  one  to  the  other  could  reach, 
And  when  the  wild  winds  over  them  run 
The  tops  of  the  seven  trees  looked  like  one. 

There  they  stood  in  the  rain  and  shine, 

Like  so  many  soldiers,  all  of  a  line, 

Beating  the  tempest  away  when  it  came ; 

And  still  when  the  midsummer  burned  like  a  flame, 

Dropping  their  shadows,  now  less,  now  more, 

Over  the  door-stone  and  into  the  door. 

Seven,  and  one  of  the  seven,  an  oak, 

Scarred  and  scathed  by  a  lightning-stroke, 

That,  leaving  it  at  the  fork  gaped  wide, 

Ran  like  a  black  vein  down  one  side ; 

An  elm,  with  a  shaggy  red  vine  at  the  top, 

Hanging  loose,  and  as  though  it  were  ready  to  drop. 


66  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Three  sweet  silver  maples,  a  willow  so  fair 

That  like  a  lithe  swimmer  took  hold  of  the  air ; 

A  walnut,  too  proud  to  yield  ever  a  nut, 

With  all  its  black  bark  into  rough  diamonds  cut. 

And  so  there  were  seven  —  we  wished  they  were  four, 

Or  six  —  we  would  have  them  be  less  or  be  more ! 

Fair  every  tree  of  them  —  why  should  we  say 

If  this  one  or  that  one  were  only  away ! 

O,  't  is  no  matter,  —  the  story  is  meant 

To  show  you  that  mortals  are  never  content, 

And  if  the  trees  had  been  six,  or  four, 

We  still  would  have  wished  they  were  less,  or  more. 


FINE    TALK. 

npHEY  may  talk  about  talk 
JL     With  a  silvery  ring, 
But  silence  is  sometimes 

An  excellent  thing. 
Of  course  there  's  no  statute 

To  limit  the  breath, 
And  he  that  so  chooses 

May  talk  you  to  death ! 
But  if  you  have  nothing 

To  tell  or  to  teach, 
There  's  no  use  abusing 

The  good  gift  of  speech ! 


FINE  TALK. 

I  ve  heard  tongues  that  clattered 

Like  shallowest  brooks, 
But  never  tha  fine  talk 

You  read  of  in  books ! 
I  often  hear  things 

That  were  tolerably  good, 
But  not  your  fine,  fine  talk,  — 

I  wish  that  I  could ! 
For  when  words  like  music 

Have  ravished  the  air, 
It  somehow  has  happened 

I  never  was  there. 

It  is,  as  I  fancy, 

The  fault  of  my  star, 
For  certainly  somewhere 

Fine  talkers  there  are  ; 
And  sometimes  I  've  thought, 

For  a  minute  or  two, 
Here  is  one !    He  was  telling  me 

All  that  he  knew ! 
For  when  we  next  met, 

Without  switching  the  train 
Of  a  thought,  he  repeated 

The  same  things  again. 

And  if  I  might  venture 

One  word  to  suggest 
To  the  talkers,  who  brilliantly 

Prey  on  the  rest, 


67 


68  SNOW-BERRIES. 

I  would  tell  them  that  no  one, 

So  far  as  I  've  heard, 
Likes  always  to  listen 

And  say  not  a  word ; 
And  that  it  were  wisdom 

To  ponder  my  rhyme, 
And  utter  their  oracles 

One  at  a  time ! 


PART    III. 

THE   WEAVER'S    DAUGHTERS. 


THE   WEAVER'S   DAUGHTERS. 

IN  a  poor  little  house  that  stood  almost  within 
the  shadow  of  a  great  monastery  there  lived 
once  two  sisters,  named  Agnes  and  Elthea,  —  or 
phans,  and  heirs  of  nothing  but  an  honest  name 
and  the  trade  of  their  parents,  which  was  that  of 
weaving.  The  elder,  Agnes,  had  black  hair,  a 
pale  face,  hands  that  were  never  idle,  and  a  tongue 
that  was  always  still,  except  when  it  repeated  pray 
ers  or  when  the  prattle  of  Elthea  provoked  it  to 
speech. 

Mirth  ill  becomes  you,  good  sister,  Agnes  often 
said,  with  severe  voice  and  frowning  brow.  Do  not 
the  bones  of  our  parents  moulder  in  the  dust  ? 
and  have  we  not  to  earn  our  bread  by  our  weav 
ing  ?  and  if  we  take  time  to  laugh,  what  will  be 
come  of  the  work ! 

Then  Elthea  would  answer  something  after  this 
fashion  :  "  I  know,  my  sister,  that  you  are  wise  and 
I  am  simple  ;  I  know  too  that  our  parents  are 
dead,  and  that  we  are  poor  girls  who  must  weave 
from  morning  till  night  to  earn  our  food  and  our 
clothing ;  but  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  wicked  to  keep 


72  SNOW-BERRIES. 

the  heart  light  just  because  the  hands  have  to  be 
busy,  or  for  that  other  reason  that  our  good  father 
and  mother  have  gone  to  a  better  world." 

And  having  said  this,  or  something  like  it,  she 
would  try  to  separate  the  smiles  from  her  rosy 
mouth,  and  would  weave  very  quietly  for  five  min 
utes  ;  then,  all  unaware,  she  would  break  into 
mockery  of  the  bird  at  the  doorside,  and  after  her 
little  song,  ask  Agnes  how  it  happened  that  so  often 
at  nightfall  the  cloth  in  her  loom  measured  the 
longer ! 

"  Giddy  child,"  Agnes  would  answer,  with  never 
a  smile,  "  do  you  not  know  that  the  Devil  helps  his 
own  ?  " 

This  was  a  dreadful  thought,  and,  pondering  it, 
Elthea  would  remain  silent  a  whole  half-hour  some 
times  ;  but  in  the  end  laugh  again,  and  reply,  "  If 
it  be  as  you  say,  good  sister,  I  will  sing  while  I 
may,  for  the  breath  I  use  in  singing  would  not 
serve  me  to  cool  the  fires  a  thousand  years  hence." 

"  0  my  poor  sister ! "  Agnes  would  sigh,  moisten 
ing  the  threads  of  her  weaving  with  her  tears  ;  and 
thus  from  day  to  day  they  sat  at  their  looms,  roses 
blooming  in  the  cheeks  of  one,  and  wrinkles  and 
pallor  making  the  face  of  the  other  old  before  its 
time. 

At  twilight  Elthea  went  with  their  woven  cloth 
to  the  neighboring  convent,  where  it  was  embroid- 


THE  WEAVER'S  DAUGHTERS.         73 

ered  by  the  sisters  in  patterns  fine  and  beautiful 
enough  for  queens  to  wear.  If  it  were  summer, 
she  plucked  flowers  on  the  way  and  made  crowns 
for  her  golden  hair,  which  she  sometimes  wished 
might  be  admired  by  eyes  besides  her  own,  as  she 
bent  her  head  over  the  still  places  along  the  brook. 

If  Agnes  could  have  seen  how  nicely  she  disposed 
the  flowers,  and  with  what  vanity  she  broadened 
the  golden  bands  of  her  hair,  she  would  have 
frowned,  even  at  her  prayers  ;  but  Elthea  never 
wore  home  the  flowers.  She  gave  them  to  the  brook, 
whose  bright  waters  carried  them  lovingly  away, 
and  smoothed  back  the  broad  bands  of  her  hair  before 
crossing  the  threshold  of  the  gloomy  house,  where, 
till  her  return,  the  firelight  seemed  afraid  to  shine. 

One  night,  as  she  was  spreading  the  table  with 
bread  and  grapes  and  milk,  singing  a  song  so  low 
that  it  hardly  came  out  of  her  heart,  —  a  song  that 
was  half  thanksgiving  and  half  prayer,  —  the  great 
bell  of  the  monastery  began  to  toll  so  solemnly  that 
for  a  moment  she  grew  pale,  and  crossed  herself  in 
silence ;  for  she  had  been  born  and  reared  in  the 
faith  that  teaches  men  and  women  to  believe  there 
is  some  special  virtue  in  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
she  had  not  learned  that  there  is  no  virtue  at  all 
in  the  signs,  or  outward  shows  of  things.  No 
change  came  over  the  face  of  Agnes,  and  indeed 
her  face  was  always  so  gloomy  that  it  would  have 


74  SNOW-BEREIES. 

been  difficult  for  it  to  look  gloomier  than  common, 
but  her  voice  had  in  it  some  bitter  gratification  as 
she  said  she  was  glad  to  see  her  sister  Elthea  silent 
and  sad  for  once  ! 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however,  that  Elthea 
looked  sad.  "  I  was  afraid  some  evil  had  fallen 
upon  the  land,  at  first,"  she  said,  "  but  I  perceive 
by  the  peculiar  tolling  of  the  bell  that  it  is  not  evil, 
but  good  that  has  befallen.  And  it  is  probably 
some  sister  of  the  convent  that  has  passed  from 
death  into-  life  " ;  and  so  saying,  she  joined  her  little 
song  where  it  had  been  broken  off,  and  went  on 
with  her  preparations  for  supper  with  a  face  as  ten 
derly  bright  as  the  tenderest  and  brightest  of  all 
the  May  mornings. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Agnes,  lifting  up  her  hand  ;  "  I 
hear  the  mountain  wind  coming  angrily  down  ;  the 
roof-tree  shakes  its  last  leaves  off  to  battle  with  it. 
Saints,  protect  us  !  it  will  be  a  fearful  night !  " 

As  she  spoke  the  rain  dashed  against  the  roof  as 
if  a  thunder-cloud  emptied  itself  all  at  once.  Then 
Agnes  began  to  cry  aloud,  as  a  child  that  is  lost  in 
the  dark  ;  but  Elthea  said :  "  God,  who  holds  the 
whirlwinds  in  his  hand,  will  keep  us,  and  we  shall 
not  die.  Why  do  you  fear,  my  sister  ?  doth  he  not 
love  us  the  same  when  to  our  weak  vision  the  way 
of  his  providence  seems  dark  ?  " 

And  still  the  bell  tolled  mournfully,  the  winds 


THE   WEAVER'S   DAUGHTERS.  75 

drove  dismally,  and  the  rain  beat  heavily.  It  was 
enough  to  make  any  soul  afraid  that  could  not  draw 
light  into  the  darkness  from  the  sunshine  of  a  past 
life  of  pious  cheerfulness  and  resignation. 

"  Have  mercy  on  us,  good  saints !  "  cried  Agnes 
again  and  again,  wringing  her  hands  in  dismay. 

"  Our  Father,  we  thank  and  bless  thee  for  the 
fire  that  makes  us  warm,  and  for  the  roof  that  shel 
ters  us,  and  for  our  trust  in  thee  that  no  storm  can 
beat  down,"  prayed  Elthea. 

Directly,  in  a  lull  of  the  storm,  there  was  heard 
a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  Elthea,  smiling,  made 
haste  to  open  it ;  for  she  said,  "  It  is,  perhaps,  some 
poor  wayfarer,  whose  life  is  mercifully  given  into 
our  keeping."  But  Agnes  reproved  her  with 
frowns,  saying,  "  Stir  not  for  your  life  ;  it  is  some 
murderer  who  seeks  our  blood,  or  at  best  a  robber 
who  takes  advantage  of  the  storm."  And  when 
she  saw  that  Elthea  would  not  be  hindered  from 
opening  the  door,  she  hid  herself  in  the  darkest  cor 
ner  of  the  house,  under  the  cloth  that  was  in  her 
loom ;  and  her  trembling  shook  the  floor  beneath 
Elthea' s  feet,  as  her  steady  hand  unlatched  the  door 
and  set  it  open  wide. 

"  Now,  all  good  saints  and  angels  bless  thee  for 
the  sake  of  thy  sweet  charity,"  said  the  stranger 
who  stood  waiting.  "I  dreamed  not  these  rude 
hills  held  so  fair  a  blossom.  Thy  goodness — for  1 


76  SNOW-BERRIES. 

am  sure  thou  art  good  —  shalt  be  my  shield  as  well 
as  thy  roof.  Bring  me  straight  to  thy  royal  mother, 
that  I  may  kiss  her  hand." 

The  youth  and  stranger  had  crossed  the  threshold 
as  he  spoke,  and  now  stood  waiting  meekly  before 
Elthea  in  the  light  of  the  burning  fire. 

"  You  honor  me  above  my  deserts,  gentle  friend," 
replied  Elthea,  her  confusion  showing  all  the  more 
for  the  blushes  in  which  it  tried  to  hide.  "  We 
are  but  poor  girls,  the  children  of  weavers,  and 
our  parents  are  dead." 

"  Children  ?  "  repeated  the  stranger,  turning  his 
fair  face  toward  the  dark  corners  of  the  room ;  "  I 
see  only  thyself." 

Then  Agnes  came  forth  from  beneath  the  cloth 
of  the  loom,  and  said,  turning  her  dark  face  toward 
the  stranger,  "  My  sister,  a  giddy  and  thoughtless 
maiden  as  you  may  judge,  has  spoken  truly.  We 
are  indeed  poor,  weaving  all  day  long  for  our  bread, 
which  at  the  best  is  scanty  enough  " ;  and  she  broke 
the  small  loaf  in  two  pieces  as  she  said  this,  and 
offering  one  piece  to  Elthea,  began  to  eat  the  other, 
for  she  hoped  to  drive  the  stranger  away  by  show 
ing  him  that  they  had  nothing  to  spare. 

But  Elthea  forgot  her  long  fast,  which  she  was 
used  to  keep  all  day,  and  remembering  the  stranger, 
who  had  been  beaten  by  the  rain,  and  must  be 
tired  and  famished,  she  offered  him  what  bread 
was  left  without  tasting  any. 


THE  WEAVER'S  DAUGHTERS.          77 

The  stranger  accepted  the  bread,  bowing  so  low 
that  all  his  golden  locks  fell  down  about  his  face ; 
and  seeing  what  he  did,  Agnes  not  only  frowned, 
but  asked,  in  accents  sharp  and  reproachful,  how 
the  poor  could  work  without  food.  As  she  spoke, 
the  piece  of  bread  the  stranger  held  seemed  to 
grow  into  a  whole  loaf,  and  the  part  he  gave  back 
to  Elthea  was  more  than  the  whole  she  had  given. 
And  as  they  ate,  the  rain  drove,  and  the  wind 
blew,  and  the  great  bell  of  the  monastery  tolled 
and  tolled.  When  Agnes  spoke,  she  could  hardly 
hear  her  own  voice  for  the  noise  of  the  storm. 
Nevertheless,  she  said  she  believed  the  tempest 
had  wellnigh  ceased,  and  a  favorable  time  was  of 
fered  for  wanderers,  if  any  were  abroad,  to  seek 
shelter  in  the  neighboring  convent.  The  stranger 
seemed  not  to  hear  or  to  understand  her  words,  for 
he  continued  to  eat  his  bread  quietly  as  before. 
"Had  we  never  so  much  charity,"  continued  Ag 
nes,  "  we  could  neither  shelter  nor  lodge  a  way 
farer,  even  though  we  knew  him  to  be  a  pious 
priest,  let  alone  a  vagabond  of  a  minstrel,  such  as 
are  likeliest  to  trespass  on  the  poor." 

Now  the  stranger  wore  the  habit  of  a  minstrel, 
and  carried  with  him  a  harp,  so  that  if  he  heard 
the  words  of  Agnes  he  could  not  mistake  their 
meaning.  But  he  seemed  not  to  hear  her  words. 
He  seemed  only  to  hear  the  tolling  of  the  monas- 


78  SNOW-BERRIES. 

tery  bell ;  and  as  he  listened,  the  tears  filled  his 
beautiful  eyes,  and  ran  silently  down  his  cheeks. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  the  shadow  of  some  great 
affliction  were  resting  upon  him. 

"  Your  tears  will  not  be  dried  by  remaining 
here,"  said  Agnes,  "  for  we  are  poor  girls  who  have 
no  comfort  for  ourselves,  let  alone  for  strangers, 
and  we  sell  the  kerchiefs  we  weave  for  our  bread." 

But  Elthea,  when  she  heard  this  cruel  speech, 
came  softly  between  her  sister  and  him,  and  in  si 
lence  that  was  just  as  sweet  as  any  spoken  words, 
wiped  his  tears  with  her  long  golden  hair.  And 
directly  the  heart  of  the  young  man  began  to  be 
lighter  in  his  bosom,  and  he  told  the  little  maiden, 
as  she  strove  to  comfort  him  in  her  own  gentle 
way,  that  the  king  who  had  ruled  in  his  own  coun 
try  for  years  and  years,  so  wisely  and  so  well  that 
all  his  people  loved  him  and  came  .to  him  in  the 
time  of  their  sorrow  as  though  he  had  been  their 
own  father  and  not  the  king,  was  now  dead, — 
dead  and  gone,  —  and  all  the  land  was  in  mourn- 
ingj  and  all  the  bells  of  all  the  convents  ringing 
dirges,  and  all  the  sisters  singing  funeral  chants. 
Then  he  made  a  dark  picture  of  the  king's  empty 
palace,  and  of  the  king's  son,  who  in  his  grief  had 
wandered  to  a  strange  country. 

"  And  what  is  all  that  to  a  poor  minstrel  like 
thee,  or  to  the  poor  daughters  of  a  weaver  like 


THE   WEAVER'S   DAUGHTERS.  79 

us  ? "  cried  Agnes,  her  words  dropping  like  icicles 
from  her  mouth.  "The  kings  may  all  die  and 
may  all  be  buried,  but  can  we  leave  our  work  to 
weep,  though  they  were  twice  dead  and  twice 
buried ! " 

And  having  spoken  these  chiding  words,  she 
climbed  into  her  loom  again,  and  beckoned  her 
sister  to  follow;  but  Elthea,  who  had  a  mind  of 
her  own,  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  stranger  and  wept, 
saying,  "  The  king  was  a  good  king  and  a  lover  of 
his  people,  doing  in  the  land  the  things  that  were 
lovely  and  the  things  that  were  right,  and  it  is  a 
wise  thing  and  a  just  thing  to  pause  a  little  and 
ponder  upon  the  life  and  upon  the  death  of  such 
an  one."  And  the  burden  seemed  lifted  more  and 
more  from  the  young  man's  heart,  for  the  words 
spoken  by  the  gentle  and  kindly  maiden. 

"  0  my  sister!  my  foolish  sister!"  cried  Agnes. 
"  What  is  the  king  to  you,  whether  he  were  good 
or  bad,  whether  he  be  alive  or  dead  ?  " 

But  Elthea,  regardless  of  her  sister's  words,  con 
tinued  to  sit  at  the  stranger's  feet  and  to  weep, 
and  to  speak  words  that  were  sweet  and  pleasant 
to  him.  And  the  wind  blew  and  the  bell  tolled, 
and  the  rain  beat  against  the  house,  but  the  mo 
ments  fled  away  as  fast  as  the  moments  of  a  bright 
day  in  the  middle  of  the  summer. 

And  as  the  firelight  shone  upon  the  young  man, 


80  SNOW-BERRIES. 

and  Agnes  perceived  that  he  was  fair  in  the  face, 
and  that  his  locks  were  in  their  beauty  like  the 
locks  of  the  morning,  she  grew  only  the  more 
impatient  and  vexed  and  uncharitable  toward 
him. 

"You  may  perceive  how  poor  we  are,"  she  said, 
"and  that  we  have  but  one  bed,  which  cannot  be 
divided";  and  then  going  on  more  fretfully,  she 
said  that  strolling  minstrels,  she  supposed,  were 
used  to  no  better  shelter  than  the  oak-trees  af 
forded  ;  and  as  for  the  harp,  the  thought  of  it  was 
displeasing  to  her,  and  she  would  gladly  have  it 
out  of  the  house.  "  What  is  the  good  of  music  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Would  it  help  us  to  weave  the  better, 
though  we  should  listen  to  your  harp  till .  cock 
crow  ! " 

But  the  young  man  still  sat  contentedly  by  the 
fire,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  face  of  Elthea  as  though 
it  had  been  the  face  of  some  delightful  flower,  and 
the  glow  of  the  coals  made  his  beauty  radiant,  and 
his  curling  locks  like  the  brightness  of  a  day  in  the 
middle  of  summer.  His  milk-white  hands  were  all 
sparkling  with  rings,  and  the  weaver's  daughters 
had  never  seen  lace  in  their  lives  that  was  so  fine 
as  the  ruffle  he  wore  upon  his  neck.  And  seeing 
that  he  sat  thus  contented,  and  seeing  the  white 
ness  of  his  hands,  and  the  glittering  splendor  of 
the  rings  that  adorned  them,  Agnes,  casting  upon 


THE  WEAVER'S  DAUGHTERS.          81 

him  a  look  of  scorn,  arose  and  dashed  herself 
across  the  bed,  and  made  a  pretence  of  sleep  ;  but 
she  did  not  sleep,  you  may  be  sure.  Sleep  is  gen 
tle,  and  comes  not  readily  to  the  ungentle,  the 
cold,  and  the  hard. 

Then  Elthea  stirred  the  coals,  and  added  fresh 
sticks  of  wood  to  the  fire,  and  made  all  the  low 
room,  and  the  two  clumsy  looms,  and  the  cloth 
that  was  in  them,  and  the  yarn  that  hung  on  the 
walls,  to  shine  again,  and  bringing  her  shawl  from 
the  beam  of  her  loom  and  the  pillow  from  her  bed, 
she  spread  them  on  the  hearth  for  the  stranger, 
saying  how  sorry  she  was  that  such  scanty  hospi 
tality  was  all  she  could  offer.  And  the  young  man 
thanked  her  with  his  eyes  so  kindly,  and  thanked 
her  with  his  smile  so  brightly,  that  she  went  away, 
and  resting  her  head  on  the  cloth  of  her  loom, 
slept  never  so  sweetly  in  her  life. 

And  all  night  the  rain  beat,  and  the  winds  drove, 
and  the  bell  of  the  convent  tolled  ;  but  at  last  the 
cold  gray  morning  rose  over  the  hill-tops,  and  the 
face  of  Agnes,  as  she  left  her  pillow,  was  black  with 
rage  as  the  clouds,  for  there  sat  the  stranger  wait 
ing  to  share  the  morning  meal.  In  vain  she  scowled 
upon  him  :  he  would  not  be  driven  away,  but 
leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  harp,  followed  Elthea 
with  his  eyes,  as  she  went  about  the  humble  room ; 
and  she,  still  freely  as  before,  divided  her  bread 


82  SNOW-BERRIES. 

with  him,  and  after  that  broke  from  her  geranium 
all  its  pretty  flowers  and  twined  them  about  his 
harp  ;  for  he  was  going  to  the  monastery  to  sing 
dirges  and  to  offer  prayers  for  the  rest  of  the  dead 
king's  soul. 

"  The  king  was  a  good  king,  and  he  is  dead," 
said  the  young  man  ;  "  and  my  faith  teaches  me  to 
sing  thus  and  to  pray  thus  for  the  rest  of  his  soul." 

And  when  he  went  away,  Elthea  asked  the  Lord 
to  bless  him ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  blessing  came 
back  and  rested  upon  her  own  head,  for  her  heart 
had  never  been  so  full  of  peace  as  it  was  that  day. 

"  A  pretty  measure  of  cloth  you  will  be  likely  to 
weave,"  said  Agnes,  flinging  her  shuttle  across  the 
warp  so  violently  as  to  break  her  thread  ;  "  the  sun 
is  an  hour  high,  and  be  sure  I  shall  not  divide  my 
bread  with  you  for  your  folly  !  " 

Elthea  was  thinking  of  the  minstrel,  and  hardly 
heard  what  her  ill-natured  sister  said.  She  was 
thinking,  not  so  much  of  his  beautiful  locks,  and 
not  so  much  of  his  fair  face,  as  she  was  thinking  of 
his  beautiful  spirit,  for  it  was  that  which  made  him 
seem  so  beautiful  after  all ;  and  as  she  thought,  her 
fingers  grew  nimble,  and  her  shuttle  flew  just  as  if 
it  had  wings,  and  the  hours  of  the  day  seemed  al 
most  like  moments,  and  before  she  had  dreamed 
of  it,  it  was  night,  and  her  task  was  done  ;  and 
while  Agnes  still  sat  scolding  and  fretting  over  her 


THE   WEAVER'S   DAUGHTERS.  83 

unfinished  work,  she  was  away  to  the  convent  with 
her  full  measure  of  cloth. 

A  long  time  she  lingered,  for  the  music  of  the 
choir  had  never  sounded  half  so  sweet :  the  min 
strel  was  singing  with  the  rest  of  them. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  on  the  evening  of  each 
Elthea  listened  to  the  music  of  the  choir,  and  the 
hour  of  her  listening  was  like  an  hour  taken  out  of 
heaven. 

It  was  an  easy  thing  to  weave  now,  for  she  was 
weaving  dreams  while  she  wove  her  cloth,  —  dreams 
that  stretched  away  and  away,  she  knew  not  where. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  she  missed  the 
harp  of  her  minstrel,  and  the  convent  seemed  to 
her  cold  and  gloomy,  and  all  the  world  to  be 
changed.  And  yet  it  was  changed  from  clouds  to 
sunshine,  and  from  the  moaning  and  beating  of  the 
winds  to  the  chirping  and  singing  of  the  birds,  — 
the  storm  was  broken  up  and  gone,  and  the  land 
was  smiling  again.  She  could  not  stay  in  the  con 
vent,  but  hurried  away  as  fast  as  her  feet  could 
carry  her ;  and  coming  to  the  brook  she  sat  down 
on  the  bank  very  sad,  — it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her 
heart  was  being  borne  away  in  its  waves. 

The  waters  that  had  leapt  and  prattled  along  the 
stones  for  the  three  days  past  were  murmuring  and 
moaning  now ;  the  flowers  that  had  seemed  to  be 
made  of  light  now  seemed  to  be  made  of  shadows, 


84  SNOW-BERRIES. 

or  of  something  still  darker  than  shadows  ;  the 
grass  had  lost  its  tender  greenness,  and  the  air  its 
balm.  Her  very  face  must  be  changed,  she  thought, 
as  well  as  everything  else ;  and  looking  into  the 
brook  where  the  water  lay  still  and  mirror-like, 
she  was  startled  to  see  there  a  face  beside  her  own. 
It  was  that  of  the  strange  minstrel,  who  had  fol 
lowed  her,  and  was  peeping  over  her  shoulder. 

With  a  cry  of  joy  she  turned  to  him,  all  her 
heart  blushing  in  her  cheek  ;  and  then  feeling  that 
she  had  betrayed  an  interest  deeper  than  a  weav 
er's  daughter  should  feel  for  one  whose  hands  were 
so  much  whiter  than  her  own,  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  long  loose  hair,  and  stood  silent  and  trem 
bling  before  him. 

Placing  his  harp  on  the  grass  by  the  brookside, 
the  minstrel  seated  himself  a  little  way  from  where 
Elthea  was ;  and  when  the  moon  came  up  and 
looked  over  the  hill,  she  saw  the  minstrel  kiss  the 
hand  of  the  weaver's  daughter ;  and  then  she  hid 
her  face  in  a  cloud,  for  she  thought  it  was  not  fair 
that  she  should  look  upon  that  which  it  was  never 
meant  she  should  see  ;  but  when  she  had  gotten 
over  the  hill  and  came  nearer,  she  could  not  for 
the  life  of  her  help  hearing  what  the  minstrel  was 
saying  to  the  weaver's  daughter,  and  the  substance 
of  what  she  heard  was  this.  When  he  had  laid  his 
hand  on  her  golden  hair,  he  told  her  that  if  he  had 


THE   WEAVER  S    DAUGHTER. 


THE   WEAVER'S   DAUGHTERS.  85 

any  riches  except  his  harp,  he  would  ask  her  to  go 
with  him  to  his  own  country,  and  to  be  his  compan 
ion  always. 

But  what  cared  Elthea  for  riches?  she  knew 
how  to  weave,  and  it  would  be  easy  work  weav 
ing  for  him.  And  there,  in  the  moonlight,  they 
plighted  everlasting  love  with  manifold  kisses. 

Many  nights  the  bosom  of  the  minstrel  had  been 
the  pillow  of  Elthea,  and  many  days  they  had  trav 
elled  together,  her  feet  bruised  and  tired,  but  her 
heart  running  over  with  delight,  and  her  lips  sing 
ing  and  prattling  all  the  while,  when  toward  sun 
set  one  day  they  sat  down  by  the  wayside  to  rest. 
Then  it  was  that  the  minstrel  told  his  pretty  wife 
another  story,  the  marrow  of  which  was,  that  he 
was  no  minstrel  at  all,  except,  indeed,  for  the  sea 
son  of  mourning  for  the  king,  his  father  ;  for  him 
self  was  the  king's  son  ;  and  the  poor  weaver  girl, 
who  had  shared  with  him  her  bread  and  her  fire 
side,  was  henceforth  to  share  with  him  his  broad 
and  beautiful  palace,  and  for  the  shelter  she  had 
given  him  from  one  storm,  he  would  shelter  her 
from  all  the  storms  of  life. 

And  Elthea  was  loved  and  honored  by  all  her 
people  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  many  was  the  real 
minstrel  that  blessed  her  name,  and  sang  songs  in 
Jier  praise ;  and  many  was  the  embroidered  train 
she  wore  that  was  made  of  the  cloth  she  had  woven 


86  SNOW-BERRIES. 

when  a  poor  girl,  and  the  cloudy  days  and  the 
stormy  days  were  always  brightest  with  the  bless 
ing  of  memory.  And  to  the  end  of  her  life  Agnes 
wore  coarse  frocks,  and  wove  cloth  to  make  em 
broideries  that  she  never  saw,  fretting  and  scold 
ing  at  her  sister's  good-fortune  all  the  while,  and 
spoiling  before  its  time  the  beauty  of  a  face  that 
might  have  rivalled  her  sister's  if  she  had  suffered 
her  heart  to  shine  through  it  the  same. 


THREE    LITTLE    WOMEN 

THERE  were  three  little  women, 
Each  fair  in  the  face, 
And  their  laughter,  like  music, 

Filled  all  tlje  green  place, 
As  they  sat  knitting  talk  with  the 
Threads  of  their  lace. 

Of  the  winds  in  the  tree-tops, 

The  flowers  in  the  glen,  — 
The  birds,  the  brown  robin, 

The  wood-dove,  the  wren,  — 
They  talked,  but  their  thoughts  were 

Of  three  little  men  ! 


THEEE  LITTLE  WOMEN.  87 

The  sea  lay  before  them, 

With  ships  going  by ; 
Behind  them  the  hills  shone, 

So  grand  and  so  high ; 
And  above  them,  blue  beautiful 

Patches  of  sky. 

But  they  felt  not  the  sweetness  . 

That  smiled  from  the  lea, 
And  they  knew  not  the  way  of 

The  wind  through  the  tree ; 
And  they  saw  not  the  sea, 

When  they  looked  at  the  sea ! 

The  wood-dove  tapped  note  of  the  storm, 

The  shy  wren 
Twittered  fearful,  and  low 

Hung  the  mist  o'er  the  fen, 
But  all  that  they  thought  of 

Was  three  little  men ! 

The  wind  rose,  the  clouds  gathered, 

Mass  upon  mass, 
The  sun  drew  his  long  lines 

Of  light  from  the  grass,  — 
Alas !  for  the  three  little 

Women,  alas ! 

Fast  home  ran  the  robin, 
Fast  home  flew  the  wren ; 


88  SNOW-BERRIES. 

The  blacksnake  led  all  his 

Black  sons  to  the  fen, 
That  lay  'twixt  the  three 

Little  women  and  men. 

The  sky  was  all  over 

One  horrible  frown ; 
The  rain  from  the  hill-tops 

In  torrents  dashed  down, 
The  three  little  short-sighted 

Women  to  drown. 

They  died :  pray  their  watery 

Graves  may  atone 
For  their  folly,  in  trusting 

To  see  things  alone 
Through  the  eyes  of  the 

Three  little  men,  —  not  their  own. 


PRETTY  IS  THAT  PRETTY  DOES. 

THE  spider  wears  a  plain  brown  dress, 
And  she  is  a  steady  spinner ; 
To  see  her,  quiet  as  a  mouse 
Going  about  her  silver  house, 

You  would  never,  never,  never  guess 
The  way  she  gets  her  dinner ! 


ELIJAH   AND   I.  89 

She  looks  as  if  no  thought  of  ill 

In  all  her  life  had  stirred  her, 
But  while  she  moves  with  careful  tread, 
And  while  she  spins  her  silken  thread, 

She  is  planning,  planning,  planning  still 
The  way  to  do  some  murder ! 

My  child,  who  reads  this  simple  lay 

With  eyes  down-dropt  and  tender, 
Remember  the  old  proverb  says 
That  pretty  is,  which  pretty  does, 

And  that  worth  does  not  go  nor  stay 
For  poverty  nor  splendor. 

'T  is  not  the  house  and  not  the  dress 

That  makes  the  saint  or  sinner. 
To  see  the  spider  sit  and  spin, 
Shut  with  her  walls  of  silver  in, 

You  would  never,  never,  never  guess 
The  way  she  gets  her  dinner ! 


ELIJAH    AND    I. 

house  that  you  see  underneath  the  great  pine, 
With  walls  that  are  painted  and  doors  that  are  fine, 
And  meadows  and  wheat-fields  about  it,  is  mine. 


90  SNOW-BERRIES. 

On  the  stony  side-hill  of  the  woodland  close  by, 
In  a  house  that  is  not  half  so  wide  nor  so  high, 
Elijah,  my  miller,  lives,  richer  than  I. 

When  I  go  to  the  town  to  pay  tax  on  my  land, 
He  sits  by  the  chimney,  his  book  in  his  hand, 
And  merry  of  heart  as  if  money  were  sand. 

Of  the  meadows  about  him  he  owns  not  a  rood, 
No  stone  of  the  brookside,  no  stick  of  the  wood, 
Yet  ne'er  lacked  Elijah  for  clothing  or  food. 

'  'T  is  good  in  his  blue  eyes  the  twinkle  to  see ; 
That  the  mill  goes  awry  never  troubles  his  glee ; 
'T  is  I  that  must  pay  for  the  mending,  —  not  he. 

He  laughs  while  I  frown,  and  he  sings  while  I  sigh, 
The  pleasant  love-ditties  of  days  that  are  by  ; 
So  Elijah,  my  miller,  is  richer  than  I. 


A    FISHERMAN. 

A  FISHERMAN  leaned  on  a  clapboard  gate 
He  was  often  used  to  pass  ; 
'T  was  sunset,  and  two  little  boys 
Were  playing  on  the  grass. 


A   FISHERMAN.  91 

The  watchdog  by  the  door-stone  sat, 

And  bayed  the  rising  moon, 
And  the  mother  milked  her  cow  and  sung 

An  old  and  pleasant  tune. 

The  children  left  their  play  and  ran. 

And,  leaning  on  her  knee, 
She  milked  the  milk  into  their  mouths, 

Laughing  with  girlish  glee. 

And  as  she  carried  her  frothy  pail 

Slow  to  the  rustic  door, 
One  little  one  held  at  her  skirt  behind, 

And  the  other  one  before. 

She  stopped,  and  hugging  both  their  heads 

Against  her  loving  breast, 
They  looked  like  two  bright  little  birds 

A-peeping  from  one  nest. 

The  sunburnt  fisher  went  his  way, 

Sighing,  alas,  alas  ! 
It  was  not  for  the  little  boys 

That  played  upon  the  grass. 

And  when  he  came  where  cold  gray  stones 

"Were  standing,  many  a  pair, 
He  put  his  net  from  his  shoulder  down,  — 

His  little  boy  was  there. 


92  SNOW-BERRIES. 


AMY   TO   HER   FLOWERS. 

MY  lowly  little  beauties, 
Your  time  is  coming  on,  — 
The  meadows  will  be  full  of  you 

Before  a  month  is  gone. 
I  never  knew  your  names,  so  near 

Your  wild  estate  I  grew, 
But  would  that  you  could  be  alive 
To  feel  my  love  for  you. 

Full  many  a  time  the  coverlets 

Of  grass  from  off  your  beds 
I  've  turned,  my  beauties,  just  to  touch, 

With  reverent  hands,  your  heads. 
They  called  you  simple  country  flowers, 

But  what  for  that  care  I  ? 
I  loved  you  all  the  more  because 

You  were  not  proud  and  high  ! 

We  had  our  ways  of  naming  you,  — 

We  children  of  the  wood,  — 
Red-slippers,  lily-fingers, 

Queen's  cap,  and  martyr's  blood. 
The  rustic  flower,  by  virtue  of 

A  coat  as  brown  as  sand, 
And  by  the  dew-drop  shining 

Like  a  sickle  in  his  hand. 


AMY  TO  HER   FLOWERS. 

The  crumply  cow,  —  the  little  shrew 

In  strange  and  sad  attire,  — 
Lover's  tremble,  old  maid's  thimble,  — 

Moon  men,  —  miser's  fire ; 
And  one  we  used  to  gather 

When  the  millet  land  was  ploughed, 
With  little  thin  and  ragged  leaves, 

We  called  the  beggar's  shroud. 

The  belle,  —  the  lady  leopard,  — 

The  sweetheart,  —  tender-eyed,  — 
The  spinner's  gown,  —  the  winter-frown, 

And  many  a  one  beside. 
And  these,  our  untaught  fancies, 

So  much  from  nature  grew, 
I  do  not  care  to  call  you 

By  the  names  that  others  do. 

But  O  my  little  beauties, 

Of  field  and  brook  and  brake,  — 
The  slender  ones,  —  the  tender  ones,  — 

I  would,  for  my  love's  sake, 
I  could  take  and  make  immortal, 

With  the  power  of  better  lays, 
All  your  crooked  little  bodies 

That  had  never  any  praise. 


94  SNOW-BERRIES. 


AUTUMN    THOUGHTS. 

WHEN  frosts  begin  the  leaves  to  blight, 
And  winds  to  beat  and  blow, 
I  think  about  a  stormy  night 
Of  a  winter  long  ago. 

The  clouds  that  lay,  when  the  sun  went  down, 

In  a  heap  of  blood-red  bars, 
Turned,  all  at  once,  of  a  grayish  brown, 

And  ran  across  the  stars. 

And  the  moon  went  out,  and  the  wind  fell  low, 

And  in  silence  everywhere 
The  fine  and  flinty  flakes  of  snow 

Slipped  slantwise  down  the  air. 

Slipped  slantwise  down,  more  fast  and  fast, 

And  larger  grew  amain, 
Till  the  long-armed  brier-bush,  at  last, 

Was  like  a  ghost  at  the  pane. 

A  group  of  merry  children  we, 

As  any  house  can  show ; 
The  very  rafters  rang  with  glee, 

That  night,  beneath  the  snow. 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS.  95 

The  candle  up  and  down  we  slid, 

To  make  our  shadows  tall ; 
And  played  at  hide-and-seek,  and  hid 

Where  we  were  not  hid  at  all. 

We  heaped  the  logs  against  the  cold, 

And  made  the  chimney  roar ; 
And  told  the  stories  we  had  told 

A  thousand  times  before. 

We  ran  our  stock  of  riddles  through,  — 

Nor  large,  be  sure,  nor  wise  ; 
And  guessed  the  answers  that  we  knew, 

And  feigned  a  glad  surprise. 

But,  in  despite  our  frolic  joys, 

That  rang  so  wild  and  high, 
We  wished,  we  foolish  girls  and  boys, 

That  time  would  faster  fly. 

And  years  have  come  and  gone  since  then ; 

And  the  children  there  at  play, 
Are  sober  women,  now,  and  men, 
With  heads  that  are  growing  gray. 

But  their  hearts  will  never  be  so  light, 

And  their  cheeks  will  never  glow 
As  they  did  upon  that  stormy  night, 

In  the  garret  rude  and  low. 


PART    IV. 

THE    MAN   WHO   STOLE  A   COW. 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   COW. 

FT1HERE  once  lived  in  a  beautiful  country,  no 
JL    matter  just  where,  a  young  man  whose  name 
was  David.     From  his  boyhood  he  was  given  to 
idleness  and  to  dreaming,  so  much  so  that  he  came 
to  be  called  by  those  who  knew  him  Davy  Dreamer, 
and  it  was  predicted  of  him  that  he  would  never 
come  to  any  good.    But  he  did  come  to  some  good  ; 
he  married  a  good  wife,  and  a  pretty  one  too.     She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  man  as  poor  as  himself,  but 
she  had  habits  of  industry,  and  great  good  sense, 
which  was  a  good  deal  better  than  a  dowry  of  gold 
or  silver ;  and  it  was,  no  doubt,  more  owing  to  her 
management  and  hard  work  —  for  she  was  never 
idle  —  than  to  anything  of  his  doing,  that,  at  mid 
dle  life,  Davy  Dreamer  owned  a  neat  cottage  and 
five  acres  of  garden  ground.     Moreover,  it  is  quite 
certain  that  not  a  flower-bush  nor  a  sweet-scented 
herb  grew  on  the  little  farm,  if  so  it  might  be^ 
called,  which  was  not  of  her  planting.     A  woman 
who  found  no  time  for  dreaming  was  the  wife  of 
David.     Nevertheless,  she  was  never  heard  to  rate 
her  good  man  for  his  indulgence  in  his  favorite 


100  SNOW-BERRIES. 

pastime,  and  never  seen  to  frown,  and  some  per 
sons  believed  it  was  her  smiling  which  made  her 
face  so  pretty. 

I  said  at  middle  life  they  owned  a  pretty  cottage 
and  a  garden,  which  with  careful  cultivation  would 
have  yielded  not  only  a  competence,  but  many  of 
the  luxuries  of  life  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  record  that 
David  fell  a-dreaming  often,  at  which  times  the 
spade  was  sure  to  fall  out  of  his  hands,  and  as  the 
pretty-faced  woman  who  was  his  wife  had  tasks  in 
the  house  to  do,  thistles  grew  up,  and  briers  and 
rank  grass  choked  the  small  vegetables  quite  down 
sometimes. 

As  a  natural  consequence  of  this  thriftlessness, 
their  wants  grew  faster  than  the  means  of  sup 
plying  them ;  for  the  little  house  was  full  of  chil 
dren  —  I  know  not  how  many,  but  so  many  that 
David  often  desponded  and  said  to  his  wife  in  a 
half-dreaming  state,  —  that  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  one  little  garden  to  maintain  them  all ;  and  so 
he  would  sit  for  hours  musing  and  meditating  on 
what  could  be  done  for  the  prevention  of  want,  — 
of  actual  starvation  in  fact. 

"  There  will  be  some  way  provided,  never  fret," 
the  good  wife  would  answer ;  "  there  are  more 
berries  ripe  than  I  can  get  to  the  market"  ;  or,  "I 
have  found  two  new  hen's  nests,  both  full  of  white, 
fresh  eggs,"  she  would  say  to  him,  though  most 


THE  MAN  WHO  STOLE  A   COW.  101 

likely  he  heard  her  not,  and  often  it  is  supposed 
he  saw  not  the  things  which  she  did  for  his  com 
fort  and  for  the  good  of  his  children;  for  when 
the  cottage  wall  was  newly  whitewashed  it  was  the 
same  to  him  as  before,  apparently,  and  when  a 
pudding  was  boiled  for  Sunday,  or  a  plum-cake 
baked,  David  took  them  as  matters  of  course,  and 
ate  them  without  seeming  to  distinguish  them  from 
coarse  bread. 

If  this  were  so,  it  was  a  pity  ;  but  I  am  afraid  it 
was  so,  for  we  have  all  of  us  seen  Davy  Dreamers 
who  took  the  favors  that  were  done  them  as  mat 
ters  of  course.  We  expect  pigs  to  eat  the  acorns 
without  looking  up  to  see  who  thrashes  them  down ; 
but  we  have  a  right,  I  think,  to  expect  a  little 
more  politeness  of  men  and  women.  However,  the 
sweet  disposition  of  the  wife  of  David  could  not  be 
soured  by  any  neglect  on  his  part,  and,  indeed,  as 
he  grew  impatient  and  fretful  and  fault-finding, 
she  grew  still  more  and  more  patient  and  gentle 
and  loving,  —  more  industrious  and  painstaking 
she  could  not  have  been. 

Sometimes,  when  she  asked  David  to  assist  in 
digging  the  ground  or  in  picking  the  berries,  he 
would  answer,  "  Don't  disturb  me  now,  my  dear, 
I  am  making  a  great  plan";  and  so  it  often  hap 
pened  that  she  picked  and  digged  alone. 

At  last,  one  day  when  the  good  woman  came 


102  SNOW-BERRIES. 

home  from  market  with  some  money  in  the  bottom 
of  a  tow  bag,  which  she  had  got  in  exchange  for 
her  fruits  and  such  other  articles  as  she  had  to 
sell,  she  ventured  to  ask  David  what  he  had  been 
dreaming  about.  She  had  never  been  known  to 
trouble  him  so  much  before,  therefore  it  is  reason 
able  to  suppose  that  his  vision  had  been  unusually 
extended. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  thinking  that 
some  of  the  rich  folks  about  here  might  give  us 
a  cow  and  never  miss  her,  and  I  am  told  there  is 
a  man  living  on  the  other  side  of  the  island "  (it 
appears  that  David  lived  on  an  island)  "  the  hills  of 
whose  farm  are  all  covered  with  cattle.  Now,  if 
I  go  to  him  and  tell  him  how  poor  we  are,  and 
how  much  one  cow  would  be  to  us,  do  you  not 
think  he  would  give  us  one  ? " 

But  the  wise  woman  saw  no  probability  of  such 
good  fortune.  It  was  barely  possible,  she  said,  but 
the  experiment  was  not  worth  trying  ;  and  even  if 
successful,  the  mortification  of  having  been  a  beg 
gar  would  imbitter  the  cow's  milk.  The  wife  of 
David,  it  would  seem,  had  her  own  little  pride,  and 
in  my  opinion  she  was  all  the  better  for  it. 

After  this  Davy  Dreamer  dreamed  almost  of 
nothing  but  cows,  and  when  he  talked  it  was  all 
about  the  rich  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  island, 
who  had  meadows  against  meadows  all  dotted  over 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   COW.  103 

with  beautiful  cattle.  "He  would  never  miss  a 
cow;  and  I  dare  say  if  he  only  knew  of  our  poverty, 
he  would  gladly  give  us  one !  "  he  used  to  say;  and 
once  or  twice  he  hinted  to  his  wife  that  she  might 
go  to  him  a-begging.  But  she  only  smiled  and  let 
him  alone  with  his  dreaming,  for  she  thought  it 
quite  harmless.  She  had  no  idea  of  begging,  how 
ever,  for  her  part,  and  for  days  and  weeks  and 
months  worked  on,  and  each  return  from  the  mar 
ket  town  saw  more  and  more  silver  money  in  the 
tow  bag.  She  was  never  heard  to  complain,  but 
often  to  sing,  and  often  to  discourse  merrily  with 
her  children,  who  were  growing  to  be  blooming 
men  and  women.  A  nice  little  plan  of  her  own 
had  the  wife  of  Davy  the  dreamer. 

Meantime,  his  head  was  filled  with  all  sorts  of 
vain  imaginings.  Night  after  night  he  would  start 
up  out  of  sleep,  crying  out,  "  Just  see  what  a  pail 
ful!"  and  morning  after  morning  when  he  awoke 
he  would  peep  into  the  garden  to  see  if  a  cow  were 
not  browsing  the  cabbages.  For  hours  and  hours 
he  would  sit  facing  the  highway,  wasting  the  time 
that  he  should  have  used  for  working ;  and  never 
a  stranger  passed  along  but  that  he  looked  wist 
fully  after  him,  for  each  one  he  supposed  to  be  the 
rich  man  from  the  other  side  of  the  island  come  to 
give  him  the  cow. 

But  morning  after  morning  came  and  no  cow 


104  SNOW-BERRIES. 

was  found  to  be  browsing  in  the  garden,  and 
stranger  after  stranger  passed  along,  but  if  the 
rich  man  from  the  oilier  side  of  the  island  were 
among  them  he  made  no  pause.  And  all  the  time 
he  grew  more  and  more  fretful  and  dissatisfied. 
He  fretted  at  his  wife,  and  fretted  at  his  children, 
and  fretted  at  everything. 

"  What  is  it  troubles  you,  Davy  ?  "  the  good 
wife  used  to  say ;  but  he  would  always  answer, 
"  Nothing,  nothing !  "  so  short  and  cross  that  she 
was  glad  to  leave  him  alone.  And  then,  while  he 
covered  his  face  from  the  light  and  moped  and 
moped,  she  would  go  forth  into  the  sunshine  and 
work  and  sing,  and  make  the  best  of  things,  bad  as 
they  were.  "  Never  mind  what  father  does  !  "  she 
used  to  say  to  the  children  when  they  complained. 
"  If  father  does  n't  help  us,  it  is  our  place  to  get 
along  without  his  help,  that  is  all.  We  must  none 
of  us  wait  for  another,  nor  depend  on  another,  but 
each  do  his  own  work  in  the  world,  and  'do  it 
cheerfully ;  and  then,  let  who  will  be  at  fault,  we 
are  not." 

"  Your  father  will  get  over  his  delusions  by  and 
by,"  she  would  say,  and  she  really  had  some  rea 
son  for  this  hope :  for  at  last  he  ceased  to  tell  his 
dreams.  But,  alas !  if  she  had  known  it,  it  was 
not  because  he  had  ceased  to  dream.  He  did  not 
tell  them,  because  they  were  evil,  that  was  all.  If 


THE   MAN   WHO    STOLE    A    COW.  105 

his  wife  would  not  hear  of  his  begging,  how  much 
less  would  she  hear  of  what  he  meant  to  do  now  ? 

It  is  probable  that  to  his  own  mind  he  justified 
himself,  for  the  mind  must  work  just  as  the  brook 
must  run,  else  it  grows  dull  and  stagnant,  and 
reflects  nothing  clearly ;  and  it  is  an  easy  thing 
for  those  who  do  nothing  but  dream  to  let  their 
dreams  delude  them  at  last.  It  is  likely  that  he 
came  to  think  he  was  not  going  to  steal  at  all, 
but  just  to  take  what  he  had  a  right  to.  He  was 
poor  and  wanted  a  cow,  and  the  rich  man  on  the 
other  side  of  the  island  would  not  miss  her !  That, 
I  say,  is  likely  the  way  he  talked  to  himself,  till  he 
came  to  think  stealing  was  no  stealing  at  all. 

And  while  he  was  doing  nothing  but  make  his 
bad  plans,  his  wife  was  working  and  saving,  so 
that  the  tow  bag  had  come  to  have  a  good  deal  of 
silver  in  it ;  and  one  bright  morning  in  May, 
when  Davy  had  been  turning  and  twisting  and 
groaning  all  night,  she  arose  early,  and  having 
arrayed  herself  in  her  best  gown  and  shawl,  told 
him  that  she  was  going  to  the  market  town,  but 
that  she  was  not  coming  back  by  the  direct  road, 
and  might  not  be  home  till  midnight.  "  And  you 
must  not  be  frightened,  Davy,"  she  said,  "  if  I 
should  not  be  home  till  moonset.  I  am  going  to 
do  something  that  will  surprise  you,  I  think.". 
Davy  expressed  no  curiosity  about  what  she  was 
5* 


106  SNOW-BERRIES. 

going  to  do,  but  he  seemed  wonderfully  pleased 
that  she  was  not  coming  home  till  midnight,  and 
said  a  good  deal  to  make  it  appear  that  the  drive 
after  nightfall  would  be  much  pleasanter  than  be 
fore. 

She  was  surprised  and  a  little  disappointed  at 
this,  for  she  had  hoped  that  he  would  miss  her, 
and  would,  at  least,  ask  her  why  she  should  be 
away  so  long ;  but  she  could  not  but  see  that  her 
absence  would  be  agreeable  to  him. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  sick,  and  perhaps  he  is  dreaming 
again,"  she  said  to  herself  by  way  of  excusing  him, 
and  so  kissed  him  and  departed,  but  with  a  heart 
much  less  light  than  it  would  have  been  if  he  had 
said  one  loving  word. 

The  old  clock  in  the  corner  had  not  counted 
many  minutes  after  the  wife  was  gone,  till  the  hus 
band,  having  hastily  prepared  himself,  took  his 
way  to  the  other  side  of  the  island. 

He  walked  vigorously  on,  for  the  morning  air 
was  sweet,  and  a  new  project  is  apt  to  impart  new 
energy.  Gayly  sung  the  blackbirds,  hopping  along 
the  newly  ploughed  ground  and  up  and  down  the 
fences,  and  the  bluebirds  twittered  and  fluttered 
almost  in  his  face ;  and  it  was  not  yet  noon  when 
he  came  to  the  other  side  of  the  island,  and  found 
that  the  rich  man's  possessions  had  not  been  over 
estimated.  Lying  in  the  faint  shadows  of  the  trees 


THE   MAN   WHO    STOLE    A   COW.  107 

there  were  cows  ;  standing  knee-deep  in  the  water 
of  the  brooks  there  were  cows ;  and  grazing  along 
the  green,  thick  grass  of  the  hills  there  were  cows, 
—  all  with  great  udders,  and  looking  so  gentle  and 
so  pretty.  He  saw,  too,  the  fine  house  in  which  the 
rich  man  lived ;  it  was  not  much  like  his  cottage, 
and  its  splendor  seemed  to  mock  his  poverty,  so 
that  he  grew  angry  as  well  as  discontented. 

There  was  no  person  in  the  field  nor  in  sight,  so 
that  he  might  have  driven  one  of  the  cows  away 
quite  safely,  as  it  appeared ;  but  though  he  broke  a 
goad  from  a  thorn-tree  for  that  purpose,  something 
seemed  to  hold  him  back,  and  not  until  nightfall 
could  he  persuade  himself  to  single  one  from  the 
number  and  drive  her  away.  But  when  at  last 
the  sun  was  down  and  the  shadows  began  to  dark 
en,  there  came  into  the  field  the  keeper  of  the 
cows  and  called  them  home  to  be  milked ;  and 
Davy,  who  had  been  waiting  all  day  for  this  favor 
ing  hour,  was  half  glad  when  he  saw  the  coveted 
opportunity  passing  away.  But  it  seems  that  when 
our  hand  is  once  lifted  up  to  do  evil,  Satan  stands 
ready  to  take  it,  and  to  lead  us ;  and  what  we  call 
chance  favored  the  man's  bad  designs. 

One  of  the  cows,  unmindful  of  the  call  of  her 
master,  stayed  feeding  along  the  hollow  and  was 
not  missed  among  so  many.  Suddenly  the  clouds, 
which  had  been  floating  about  during  the  day, 


108  SNOW- BERRIES. 

darkened  together ;  so  that  but  for  the  white  face 
of  the  cow,  the  old  man  could  not  have  seen  her  a 
dozen  yards  away.  Summoning  up  all  the  resolu 
tion  of  the  growth  of  years,  he  drove  her  with  the 
thorn-goad  away  from  her  own  home.  Many  times 
he  paused  and  listened,  thinking  he  heard  footsteps 
pursuing  him  ;  and  many  times  he  hid  in  the 
thickets,  for  he  thought  voices  called  him  to  stop, 
and  if  the  harmless  cow  but  turned  her  face  toward 
him  and  lowed,  he  almost  shrieked  aloud  ;  so  trem 
bling  and  listening,  and  framing  lies  to  tell  to  his 
good  wife  when  he  should  reach  home,  he  crept 
slowly  forward. 

Having  fasted  all  day,  he  grew  faint,  and  the  un 
accustomed  exercise  had  made  him  tired,  so  that 
he  resolved  to  rest  for  a  time  and  drink  some  of  the 
cow's  milk,  and  at  the  rising  of  the  moon,  which 
lie  apprehended  would  scatter  the  clouds,  go  on 
refreshed. 

Under  the  shelter  of  a  low-spreading  beech,  upon 
which  the  dead  leaves  of  the  last  year  hung  thick, 
he  stopped  ;  and  taking  a  small  but  stout  cord 
from  his  pocket,  secured  the  cow,  tying  her  by  the 
horn  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  She  seemed  very 
gentle  and  quiet,  but,  though  he  knew  not  why,  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  taste  her  milk,  hun 
gry  and  tired  as  he  was  ;  so  leaning  against  the 
tree,  he  resolved  to  wait  the  rising  of  the  moon, 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE   A   COW.  109 

and  to  take  a  nap  meantime.  But  this  resolve  was 
much  easier  made  than  executed.  Sleep  would 
not  come  to  him  for  any  scolding  or  fretting,  as  his 
wife  had  always  been  used  to  do,  It  was  not  be 
cause  his  bed  was  the  ground,  and  not  because  his 
grass  pillow  could  not  be  moved  like  his  feather 
one  at  home,  that  he  could  not  sleep,  —  though  he 
tried  to  make  himself  believe  so  ;  it  was  because 
he  had  done  that  which  he  should  not  have  done 
that  he  could  not  sleep. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  every  step  he  heard  was 
the  step  of  some  one  coming  to  arrest  him ;  and 
his  imagination  made  pictures  of  prison  walls,  of 
jailers,  and  of  everything  that  was  frightful  to 
think  of.  The  very  moon  seemed  to  look  reproach 
fully  on  him  from  the  sky,  and  to  say  :  "  You  are 
a  thief,  old  man  !  and  you  had  better  go  and  jump 
into  the  river,  if  you  can't  be  an  honest  man  !  " 

The  corn-blades,  as  they  rustled,  seemed  to  him 
to  be  talking  to  him,  and  to  say  :  "  Have  you  ever 
made  a  cornstalk  grow  or  an  apple-tree  bloom  and 
bear  ?  have  you  planted  a  wheat-field  or  sown  a 
meadow,  or  done  anything  else  to  help  the  world 
along,  or  to  make  it  any  the  better  for  your  having 
lived  ?  "  In  the  leaves  of  the  tree  under  which  he 
was  lying,  the  wind  seemed  to  stop  and  to  stay 
there,  fretting  and  scolding ;  he  had  always  thought 
the  wind  murmured  and  sung  before,  but  it  cer- 


110  SNOW-BERRIES. 

tainly  scolded  now.  The  voice  that  used  to  whis 
per  in  the  leaves  seemed  now  to  be  saying,  "  I  am 
ashamed  of  you !  I  am  ashamed  of  you !  "  over 
and  over  and  over.  Poor  old  man  !  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  that  was  why  the  wind 
took  such  a  sound. 

Two  crows  alighted  near  by  him,  on  the  dead 
branch  of  an  old  tree,  and  though  it  was  not  the 
time  for  them  to  make  a  noise,  being  night,  they 
set  up  a  cry  ;  but  instead  of  saying  Caw  !  caw  !  as 
is  the  way  of  crows,  they  seemed  to  Davy  to  be 
saying  Cow !  cow !  So  that  he  concluded  that 
they  too  knew  what  he  had  done.  And  more  than 
this,  he  thought  everybody  would  hear  them,  and 
the  whole  world  would  know  of  it.  v 

He  wished  he  had  never  heard  of  the  rich  man  ; 
he  wished  he  had  stayed  at  home  and  minded  his 
own  business,  and  never  seen  a  cow,  nor  heard  of 
a  cow,  nor  thought  of  a  cow !  but  above  all,  he 
wished  that  he  had  not  stolen  a  cow  !  Sometimes 
he  was  almost  persuaded  to  drive  her  back,  turn 
her  into  her  own  green  pasture,  go  home  to  his 
good  wife  and  confess  all  the  truth,  and  try  to  be  a 
better  man  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  turn  evidence  against 
ourselves,  and  the  man  who  has  lied  once  will  gen 
erally  tell  forty  other  lies  to  conceal  the  one,  rather 
than  own  the  simple  truth.  I  suppose  a  man  never 
suffered  more  from  the  torment  of  conscience  than 


THE  MAN   WHO   STOLE   A   COW.  Ill 

Davy  the  Dreamer  suffered  as  he  lay  there  on  the 
ground  by  the  side  of  his  cow.  And  yet  she  looked 
so  beautiful  as  she  stood  there  chewing  the  cud  in 
the  moonlight,  he  could  not  help  the  thought,  now 
arid  then,  that  she  would  be  a  great  delight  to  him 
if  he  once  had  her  in  his  own  pasture,  and  if  he 
could  be  sure  that  no  living  mortal  would  ever 
know  how  he  came  by  her !  But  even  this  fancy 
did  not  quite  satisfy  him.  "  There  is  one  person 
that  will  know,"  said  he,  "  and  that  is  myself!  0, 
misery,  misery  !  if  I  could  only  bribe  my  own 
thoughts  to  let  me  alone  !  "  But  this  Davy  could 
not  do,  for  no  man  ever  could  do  it ;  and  feeling 
how  impossible  it  was  to«  have  his  own  respect,  to 
have  anything  but  his  own  condemnation,  he  trem 
bled  and  hid  his  face  in  the  wild  grass  about  him 
like  a  frightened  beast. 

At  last  the  full  moon  got  over  the  trees  and  the 
hills  and  the  low  clouds,  and  in  the  clear  sky  shone 
out  in  full  splendor.  And  with  the  beautiful  light 
some  part  of  his  awful  fear  vanished ;  and  having 
listened,  and  hearing  no  step,  and  the  crows  t>eing 
now  still,  he  softly  untied  the  cow  and  drove  her 
homeward.  He  did  not  get  on  very  far,  however, 
before  he  found  that  he  had  lost  his  way.  In  the 
first  place,  he  had  never  been  from  home,  and  did 
not  know  the  roads ;  and  in  the  next,  his  mind  was 
so  full  of  terror  as  to  bewilder  him,  and  in  fact 


112  SNOW-BEEBIES. 

make  him  almost  like  a  crazy  man.  He  could  not 
tell  north  from  south,  nor  east  from  west,  and  when 
he  came  to  where  the  roads  forked,  he  could  not 
for  the  life  of  him  conclude  which  way  to  go.  So 
he  drove  his  cow  into  the  woods,  tied  her  to  a  tree, 
as  before,  and  resolved  to  wait  till  morning. 

By  and  by  the  cow  lay  down  among  the  dry 
leaves,  and  her  deep  quiet  breathing,  together  with 
the  security  of  the  place,  soothed  Davy,  so  that  he 
at  length  lay  down  beside  her,  and,  nestled  close  to 
her  speckled  hide,  fell  asleep,  and  in  his  sleep  he 
dreamed,  and  this  was  what  he  dreamed. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  got  safely  home  with 
his  cow,  even  to  the  garden  gate.  And  that  on 
looking  up  he  saw  that  his  house  was  burned  down ; 
and  while  he  stood  in  consternation,  one  of  his 
neighbors  met  him  and  told  him  that  his  wife  was 
dead  of  a  broken  heart,  and  that  his  children  were 
some  of  them  run  away,  and  some  of  them  in  prison 
for  stealing  cows ! 

He  awoke  with  a  stifled  cry  in  his  heart,  and  sit 
ting  up,  saw  that  it  was  daylight,  and  that  the  gray 
dew  was  lying  all  over  his  hair  and  clothes  ;  his 
limbs  were  stiff,  and  he  was  chilled  through  and 
through. 

A  squirrel  near  by  was  chattering  among  the 
tangled  roots  of  an  old  tree,  and  it  seemed  to  Davy 
that  he  kept  saying,  "  Good  for  you  !  good  for  you ! 


THE   MAN    WHO   STOLE   A   COW. 


THE  MAN  WHO   STOLE  A   COW.  113 

good  for  you  !  "     So  that  it  was  all  the  same  with 
him,  whether  asleep  or  awake  there  was  no  peace. 

When  he  tried  to  walk  his  legs  dragged  under 
him  as  if  they  were  half  asleep,  and  his  mind  was 
benumbed  as  well  as  his  body  ;  but  still  it  was 
filled  with  strange,  crazy  notions  that  tormented 
him  cruelly. 

A  little  way  from  where  he  had  passed  the  night 
there  was  a  mossy  stone  sticking  up  out  of  the 
ground,  three  times  as  big  as  his  head,  and  at  one 
moment  he  was  tempted  to  wrench  this  stone  out 
of  its  place,  and  knock  the  cow  on  the  head  with 
it :  if  she  were  only  dead,  it  seemed  to  him  that  that 
would  make  it  as  if  he  had  not  stolen  her. 

Chilled,  hungry,  bewildered,  half  crazy,  he  knew 
not  what  to  do,  for  he  was  just  as  much  lost  as  he 
had  been  in  the  dark.  Sometimes  he  thought  he 
would  go  and  give  himself  up  as  a  thief ;  still  he 
did  not,  nor  did  he  do  anything  else  except  stagger 
blindly  about,  and  almost  wish  himself  dead  and 
buried  under  the  dry  leaves  of  the  forest. 

By  and  by  the  cow  got  hungry  too,  and  pulled 
at  the  rope  with  which  she  was  tied,  and  lowed 
again  and  again  ;  so  loud  that  Davy  thought 
somebody  would  certainly  hear  her,  and  come 
and  take  her  away,  and  himself  too,  with  iron 
handcuffs  on ! 

At  length,  he  struck  the  cow  in  his  rage  because 


114  SNOW-BERRIES. 

she  lowed  so  loud,  and  suddenly  jerking  at  the  rope 
with  which  she  was  tied,  she  broke  it,  and  ran 
away.  Now  Davy  no  sooner  saw  her  escaping  from 
him  than  the  old  desire  to  have  a  cow  for  his  own, 
to  see  her  feeding  in  his  garden,  and  his  children 
drinking  her  milk,  all  came  back  upon  him,  and 
he  hobbled  after  her  as  fast  as  he  could  go  ;  but 
such  a  wild-goose  chase  as  she  led  him  it  is  not 
worth  while  to  describe.  Through  thistles,  briers, 
and  hedges,  through  woods  and  across  meadows, 
and  up  and  down  hills,  it  seemed  to  Davy  that  he 
was  being  led  to  the  end  of  the  earth,  and  what 
was  his  surprise  when  toward  nightfall,  he  found 
himself  in  the  identical  pasture  field  from  which  he 
had  stolen  the  cow.  If  he  had  been  afraid  before, 
how  much  more  was  he  afraid  now ! 

He  hid  himself  behind  a  stone-wall  and  waited 
for  the  night  to  fall,  not  daring  even  to  lift  up  his 
head  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  owner  of  the  cows  come 
to  drive  them  home  to  be  milked,  he  crouched  down 
into  the  very  earth. 

All  the  cattle  seemed  delighted  that  the  estray 
was  come  back  among  them,  and  gathered  round 
her  and  licked  her  sides  and  her  neck  and  her 
forehead,  and  made  little  moans  as  though  they 
were  talking  and  telling  how  glad  they  were. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  divide  her  from  her 
mates,"  thought  Davy  ;  and  his  heart  sank  down 


THE   MAN   WHO   STOLE   A    COW.  115 

within  him;  for,  in  spite  of  all  he  had  suffered, 
he  was  fully  resolved  to  steal  the  cow  over  again. 
Again  fortune  favored  him.  When  the  owner  of 
the  cattle  drove  the  others  out  of  the  meadow,  he 
turned  this  one,  the  handsomest  of  all,  back,  and 
Davy  heard  him  say  to  her,  "  What  business  have 
you  here  ?  why  don't  you  stay  at  home,  you  fool 
ish  creature  ?  " 

He  could  not  quite  tell  what  this  meant ;  per 
haps  some  one  had  bought  the  cow,  and  that 
thought  made  him  doubly  anxious  to  have  her. 
So,  just  as  soon  as  the  gray  twilight  crept  along  the 
meadows,  he  tied  the  cow  by  the  horn  and  led  her 
away. 

He  was  so  weak  by  this  time,  with  fasting,  and 
the  trouble  he  had  had,  that  before  he  had  trav 
elled  many  miles  he  fell  down,  and  could  not  go 
another  step.  He  milked  a  little  of  the  cow's  milk 
in  his  hand,  swallowed  it,  and  then  lay  down  to 
get  a  little  further  strength  from  sleep.  But  the 
sleep  of  a  man  who  has  stolen  a  cow  is  not  refresh 
ing,  as  you  may  well  believe,  and  he  arose  in  the 
morning  chilled  and  cramped,  and  altogether  in  a 
worse  condition  than  he  had  yet  been. 

He  was  obliged  to  halt  so  often  during  that  day, 
that  night  again  fell  while  he  was  yet  a  long  way 
from  home.  So  for  the  third  night  he  lodged  in 
the  woods,  and  it  is  altogether  probable  that  the 


116  SNOW-BERRIES. 

crows  and  the  squirrels  talked  to  him  just  as  they 
did  before.  Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down  on 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  of  his  absence,  he 
reached  home  and  drove  the  cow  in  at  the  garden 
gate.  His  house  was  not  burned  down,  as  he  had 
dreamed  it  was,  but  it  was  so  changed  that  he 
hardly  knew  it.  The  front  was  all  whitewashed, 
and  there  were  curtains  of  scarlet  stuff  shining  at 
the  windows,  and  the  grass  had  been  dipt  in  the 
dooryard,  some  young  trees  set,  and  so  many 
things  done  that  Davy  hardly  knew  it  all  for  the 
same  place. 

All  at  once,  while  he  yet  stood  amazed,  his  chil 
dren  came  running  out  with  shining  faces  and 
sleek  hair,  and  began  to  cry,  "  0  father,  have  you 
fetched  her  at  last ! "  and  then  to  fondle  and  ca 
ress  the  stolen  cow  as  though  she  were  an  expected 
guest. 

He  had  just  got  inside  and  had  latched  the  gate, 
when  turning  round  he  saw  his  wife  coming  forth 
to  meet  him,  if,  indeed,  that  smiling  woman  dressed 
so  neatly  in  a  new  gown  and  cap  was  his  wife. 
"  0  Davy !  "  she  cries,  as  she  takes  his  hand  and 
kisses  it ;  "  we  began  to  be  afraid  the  cow  had  run 
away  with  you  !  "  And  then  she  asks  him  as  she 
leads  him  into  the  house,  if  he  does  n't  think  she 
has  made  a  pretty  good  selection  of  a  cow.  Davy 
is  so  puzzled  by  alL  this  that  he  does  not  know 


THE   MAN  WHO   STOLE   A   COW.  117 

what  to  say,  and  least  of  all  does  he  know  how 
to  look  in  his  wife's  face,  for  he  sees  plainly  that, 
however  things  are,  she  trusts  him  and  believes 
in  him  with  all  her  heart.  After  a  time  the  light 
began  to  break  in  upon  his  brain.  "  Did  you  see 
the  rich  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  island  ? "  she 
says ;  and  "  0,  is  n't  it  a  beautiful  place  ?  "  and, 
"  Bid  he  tell  you  how  much  I  paid  for  the  cow  ?  I 
thought  I  would  come  home  and  surprise  you  with 
the  good  news ;  but  good  news  travels  fast,  and  when 
I  got  home  I  found  that  you  had  already  heard  it, 
and  was  gone  to  fetch  her.  How  good  it  was  of 
you,  to  be  sure !  "  And  so  she  ran  on  till  Davy  un 
derstood  it  all.  She  had  bought  the  identical  cow 
he  had  stolen,  the  morning  before  he  reached  the 
rich  man's  meadows.  He  was  no  thief,  after  all, 
and  nobody  in  the  world  could  ever  know  his  se 
cret.  At  first  he  felt  very  happy,  and  skipped  and 
danced  about  like  a  boy;  but  this  could  not  last 
with  a  wicked  secret  in  his  bosom,  and  he  soon 
began  to  droop  and  to  lose  all  appetite,  especially 
for  milk. 

The  house  had  been  all  brightened  up  inside  as 
well  as  out ;  and  besides  the  scarlet  curtains,  there 
was  a  new  rag  carpet  and  an  easy-chair  for  him 
self,  and  a  good  many  other  things  ;  but  none  nor 
all  of  them  could  give  him  pleasure,  for  all  the 
time  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  thief.  One  day  his 


118  SNOW-BERRIES. 

wife  said  to  him,  "  I  thought,  Davy,  we  were  pre 
paring  such  a  happy  surprise  for  you,  while  you 
were  gone  for  the  cow,  but  nothing  seems  to  please 
you,  and  we  did  it  all  for  you  !  " 

Then  Davy  broke  down,  and  crying  like  a  boy, 
told  his  wife  all  the  ugly  truth  ;  and  after  that  he 
had  great  pleasure  m  the  new  things,  especially 
the  easy-chair,  and  milk  tasted  sweet  to  him,  and 
there  was  nowhere  a  happier  family  than  that  of 
Davy  Dreamer,  for  he  was  cured  of  his  dreaming. 


THE    POTTER'S   LUCK 

i. 

IT  was  the  summer's  prime,  and  all  the  court 
Were  in  the  royal  forest  at  their  sport, 
Hunting  the  hare  to  please  the  merry  king, 
Driving  the  game,  and  shooting  on  the  wing ; 
Pages,  and  hounds,  and  troops  of  gentlemen 
With  horns  that  rung  the  echoes  from  the  glen ; 
Ladies  and  lords  with  plumes  and  scarlet  cloaks, 
Sweeping  across  the  shadows  of  the  oaks. 


ii. 


The  while  a  potter,  sitting  by  the  way, 
Took  in  his  hand  a  little  piece  of  clay, 


THE   POTTER'S   LUCK.  119 

And  from  the  habit  of  his  life  began 

To  furbish  it :  he  was  a  sad,  sick  man, 

Having  at  home  three  children,  pinched  and  pale,  — 

Is  it  a  wonder  that  his  heart  should  fail 

With  such  a  trouble  tugging  at  the  strings  ? 

This  hunting  pleasure  of  the  merry  king's 

Was  not  for  any  man,  as  you  will  guess, 

Being  so  friendly  with  his  own  distress  ; 

He  knew  not  how  to  spend  his  holiday, 

But  just  to  keep  on  working  with  the  clay  ! 

in. 

Well,  as  betwixt  his  palms  the  piece  he  rolled, 

A  little  zigzag  stone  that  shined  like  gold 

Dropt  out,  and  rested  on  his  knee.     Just  then 

A  lovely  and  sweet-hearted  gentleman 

Broke  through  the  bushes,  —  leapt  the  wall  that  stood 

About  the  outskirts  of  the  royal  wood, 

And  saw  the  potter  sitting  thus  alone,  — 

Upon  his  knee  the  shining  zigzag  stone  : 

And  in  his  white  hand  took  it,  paying  down 

On  the  poor  potter's  knee  a  silver  crown  ; 

Then  leapt  the  wall  and  through  the  bushes  sped. 

That  night  the  potter  came,  with  lightsome  tread, 

Home  to  his  house,  and  when  he  showed  the  crown, 

You  would  have  thought  the  roof  was  coming  down! 

Such  merry  children  it  were  good  to  see,  — 

One  at  his  shoulder,  one  on  either  knee  ; 

And  as  a  hand,  brown  as  a  leaf  that 's  dead, 

He  laid  upon  each  little  golden  head, 


120  SNOW-BERRIES. 

And  told,  with  heart  a-tremble  in  his  tone, 
About  the  shining  bit  of  zigzag  stone, 
And  all  about  the  lovely  gentleman, 
Who,  breaking  through  the  bushes  of  the  glen, 
Leapt  the  great  wall,  and  on  his  knee  laid  down  — 
The  Lord  knew  why,  he  said  —  the  silver  crown, 
His  brown  hands  shook,  his  eyes  with  tears  grew  dim, 
That  such  grand  luck  should  fall  by  chance  to  him. 

IV. 

Then  she,  the  eldest,  at  his  shoulder,  said, 

Putting  one  fair,  bare  arm  about  his  head, 

Her  eyes  bent  down,  her  fingers  pale  and  thin, 

Going  so  soft  along  his  rough  gray  chin : 

"  You  say  the  Lord  knows  why  such  luck  should  fall ; 

It  seems  to  me,  now,  just  no  luck  at  all ! 

But  for  your  working  all  the  day  alone 

Beside  the  royal  wood,  this  precious  stone 

Would  not  have  fallen  upon  your  knee,  —  nor  then 

The  silver  crown  of  this  fine  gentleman  ! 

To  pay  an  honest  debt  is  not  so  ill ; 

To  earn  the  pay  you  get,  is  better  still ! " 

And  you  who  read  the  tale,  I  trust,  agree 

The  honor  went  where  honor  ought  to  be. 


A  POET'S   WALK.  121 


A   POET'S    WALK. 

ONCE  his  way  a  poet  took 
Through  a  deep  and  dewy  glen  ; 
"Write  about  me  in  your  book ! 

Cried  the  redbreast,  cried  the  wren. 

Twittering  low  from  every  bush, 
Chirping  loud  from  every  tree, 

Cried  the  pewet,  cried  the  thrush, 
Cried  the  blackbird,  write  of  me  ! 

Sing  about  my  eyes,  my  wings,  — 
Mine  is  but  a  humble  boon,  — 

So  they  cried,  the  silly  things ! 
Crossing  each  the  other's  tune. 

But  the  poet,  sign  of  grace 
Giving  not  by  look  or  tone, 

Turned  into  a  shady  place, 
Where  a  daisy  lived  alone. 

All  her  modest  shoulders  hid 
In  a  veil  of  leaves  of  grass, 

Dropping  either  snowy  lid 
Sat  she  still  to  see  him  pass. 


122  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Then  the  poet,  with  a  quill 

That  some  eager  bird  had  shook 

Downward,  all  against  her  will, 
"Wrote  about  her  in  his  book. 


THE   SNOW-FLOWER. 


fields  were  all  one  field  of  snow, 
The  hedge  was  like  a  silver  wall  ; 
And  when  the  March  began  to  blow, 
And  clouds  to  fill,  and  rain  to  fall, 
I  wept  that  they  should  spoil  it  all. 

At  first  the  flakes  with  flurrying  whirl 

Hid  from  my  eyes  the  rivulet, 
Lying  crooked,  like  a  seam  of  pearl 

Along  some  royal  coverlet,  — 

I  stood,  as  I  remember  yet, 

With  cheeks  close-pressed  against  the  pane, 
And  saw  the  hedge's  hidden  brown 

Come  out  beneath  the  fretting  rain  ; 
And  then  I  saw  the  wall  go  down,  — 
My  silver  wall,  and  all  was  brown. 

And  then,  where  all  had  been  so  white, 
As  still  the  rain  slid  slant  and  slow, 


THE  SNOW-FLOWER.  123 

Bushes  and  briers  came  out  in  sight, 
And  spikes  of  reeds  began  to  show, 
And  then  the  knot-grass,  black  and.  low. 

One  day,  when  March  was  at  the  close, 
The  mild  air  balm,  the  sky  serene, 

The  fields  that  had  been  fields  of  snows, 
And,  after,  withered  wastes,  were  seen 
With  here  and  there  some  tender  green  ; 

That  day  my  heart  came  sudden  up 
With  pleasure  that  was  almost  pain,  — 

Being  in  the  fields,  I  found  a  cup, 

Pure  white,  with  just  a  blood-red  vein 
Dashed  round  the  edges,  by  the  rain,  — 

The  rain,  which  I  that  wild  March  hour 

So  foolishly  had  wept  to  see, 
Had  shaped  the  snow  into  a  flower, 

And  thus  had  brought  it  back  to  me 

Sweeter  than  only  snow  could  be. 


124  SNOW-BERRIES. 


EASY    WORK. 

LITTLE  children,  be  not  crying ; 
You  have  easy  work  to  do ; 
Look  not  upward  for  the  flying 
Of  the  angels  in  the  blue ; 

Look  not  for  some  great  example, 
Such  as  deaths  of  martyrs  give ; 

One  command  above  is  ample 
For  the  teaching  you  to  live  : 

So  that  you  will  find  out  roses 
Brighter  than  are  by  the  brooks ; 

Poesy  with  sweeter  closes 
Than  are  in  the  poet's  books ; 

Friends  to  gently  watch  and  tend  you 
When  your  hours  of  pain  go  by, 

And  at  last  their  prayers  to  lend  you, 
When  your  time  has  come  to  die. 

In  your  working,  in  your  praying, 
In  your  actions,  great  or  small, 

In  your  hearts  keep  Jesus'  saying,  — 
"  Love  each  other  " :  this  is  all. 


COURAGE.  125 


COUKAGE. 

KNOWING  the  right  and  true, 
Let  the  world  say  to  you 
Worst  that  it  can  : 
Answer  despite  the  blame, 
Answer  despite  the  shame, 
I  '11  not  belie  my  name,  — 
I  '11  be  a  man ! 

Armed  only  with  the  right, 
Standing  alone  to  fight 

Wrong,  old  as  time, 
Holding  up  hands  to  God 
Over  the  rack  and  rod,  — 
Over  the  crimson  sod, 

That  is  sublime ! 

Monarchs  of  old,  at  will 
Parcelled  the  world,  but  still 

Crowns  may  be  won  : 
Yet  there  are  piles  to  light,  — 
Putting  all  fear  to  flight, 
Shouting  for  truth  and  right, 

Who  will  mount  on  ? 


126  SNOW-BERRIES. 


JENNY    AND    I. 

"E  rise  before  the  lark, 

And  keep  working  till  dark, 
And  by  striving  to  do  right  we  are  fearless  of  the  wrong ; 
We  never  scold  and  fret, 
And  we  never  go  in  debt, 
And  that 's  the  way  my  Jenny  and  I  get  along. 

Nor  lodge  nor  servants'  hall 

Give  us  any  care  at  all, 
No  lady's  maid  or  coachman  have  we  to  find  or  lose ; 

And  with  Jenny  on  my  knee, 

And  no  prying  eyes  to  see, 
We  can  say  what  we  wish  to  say,  and  do  what  we  choose. 

You  might  think  our  little  house 

Just  a  shelter  for  a  mouse, 
And  counting  each  treasure,  I  am  free  to  declare 

That  a  "  real  India  shawl  " 

Would  have  cost  the  price  of  all, 
Yet  I  and  my  Jenny  have  enough  and  to  spare. 

From  the  trembling  tongues  of  trees, 
Through  the  prairie's  grassy  seas, 

In  the  green,  growing  cornfields,  and  beside  the  rainy 
brooks  ; 


JENNIE  AND  I.  127 

In  the  flowery  springtide-prime, 
And  the  Indian  summer  time, 
We  have  always  sweeter  poems  than  poets  write  in  books. 

When  banks  are  breaking  down, 

And  disaster  like  a  frown 
Weighs  hard,  in  the  city,  on  the  low  and  the  high, 

We  have  still  our  cribs  and  mows, 

Our  oxen,  sheep,  and  cows, 
And  so  we  calmly  sleep  o'  nights,  my  Jenny  and  L 


PART    V. 

THE   CHAKMED   MONEY 


THE    CHARMED    MONEY. 

JERRY  MASON  had  been  hoeing  two  long 
hours  in  the  garden  ;  the  earth  was  moist  and 
black  about  the  cabbages,  the  heavy  gray  leaves  of 
which  were  lopping  earthward  to  give  their,  as  yet, 
soft  hearts  a  better  chance  of  maturing  in  the  sun  ; 
the  red  seamy  leaves  of  the  beets  testified  to  the 
good  culture  they  had  had.  but  as  if  they  could  not 
say  it  plainly  enough,  the  beets  themselves  were 
come  up  half  out  of  the  ground  to  add  their  tes 
timony,  and  the  pale  spiky  tops  of  the  onions  stood 
up  like  soldiers  in  straight  rows,  saying,  "  Behold, 
there  is  not  a  weed  among  us."  The  tomatoes, 
bright  with  dew-drops  and  full  of  young  fruit,  gave 
out  their  pleasant  odor  most  prodigally  in  payment 
for  the  care  they  had  just  received ;  and  some  few 
flowers,  common  to  be  sure,  —  but  what  flower  is 
not  beautiful  ?  —  opened  bright  and  honest  in  the 
sunshine,  causing  Jerry  to  leave  his  work  for  a  mo 
ment,  and,  leaning  on  his  hoe,  contemplate  their 
pinky  and  purple  and  yellow  colors  with  an  ecstasy 
of  joy.  He  did  not  believe,  for  the  moment,  that 
the  king's  garden  contained  anything  more  de- 


132  SNOW-BERRIES. 

lightful  than  did  his  mother's.  But  even  if  that 
were  possible,  he  thought  the  king  could  not  enjoy 
its  beauties  half  so  much  as  he,  because  his  pleas 
ure  was  more  than  half  derived  from  the  fact  that 
himself  had  ploughed  and  sowed  the  garden,  and 
that  the  fruits  and  flowers  before  him  were  his,  as 
they  could  not  have  been  if  another  than  himself 
had  done  the  work.  The  eyes  of  the  simple  see 
straight  to  the  truth  sometimes,  when  all  the  curi 
ous  speculations  of  the  wise  are  at  fault,  and  I  am 
not  sure  but  that  Jerry  was  wise  in  feeling  that 
the  king  could  not  be  so  happy  as  he. 

He  did  not  think  of  his  bare  feet  half  buried  in 
the  loose  earth  ;  he  did  not  think  of  his  patched 
trousers,  and  that  his  shirt  was  not  linen  in  the 
wristbands  and  collar  even  ;  and  for  a  minute,  at 
least,  he  did  not  think  how  hot  the  sun  was  shin 
ing  down  upon  him,  and  how  tired  he  was. 

"  Jerry  !  "  called  his  mother,  leaning  from  the 
low  window  of  her  little  house,  —  "  Jerry,  my  child, 
you  may  as  well  go  and  feed  the  old  sitting  goose, 
and  the  change  of  work  will  rest  you." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  answered  Jerry  ;  and  as  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  face,  he  looked  across  the 
field  where  Henry  Gordon  was  idly  flying  his  kite, 
and  almost  envied  him  :  he  was  a  rich  man's  son, 
and  neither  had  to  hoe  nor  to  feed  an  old  goose. 

But  Jerry  was  too  good,  and  too  happy,  for  the 


THE   CHARMED  MONEY.  133 

most  part,  to  envy  any  one  long,  and  directly,  hang 
ing  his  hoe  in  the  fork  of  a  tree  that  stood  by  the  gar 
den  gate,  he  prepared  the  accustomed  food,  crossed 
the  barn-yard  where  the  hens  were  cackling  and 
picking  the  grains  from  the  chaff  that  was  scat 
tered  about,  passed  along  the  field  where  the  cow 
was  nibbling  the  short  grass,  went  over  the  brook 
OB.  a  bridge  of  stones  he  had  built  the  last  summer, 
climbed  the  slope  beyond,  and  suddenly  stood  still. 
The  old  goose  sitting  in  the  hollow  of  a  black  stump 
close  by  was  protruding  her  neck,  flopping  her 
wings,  and  hissing  at  a  terrible  rate.  "  You  are 
crazy,  ain't  you,  you  ugly  old  goose  !  "  exclaimed 
Jerry,  raising  up  and  clinching  one  hand  as  if  he 
would  hit  her  if  he  had  anything  with  which  to  do 
it.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  you  ?  Why  I 
have  milked  our  cow  on  the  wrong  side,  been  all 
the  way  to  mill  for  mother,  and  besides  that,  have 
killed  two  garter-snakes, —  one  of  them  half  a  yard 
long  and  striped  and  checked  like  a  ribbon  — 
Shut  up  your  wings,  you  old — whew !  "  and  Jerry 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  neighboring  stump  and 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  —  cutting  circles  in 
the  air  with  his  hat,  and  beckoning  with  his  hand 
in  great  earnestness.  Farmer  Hix  stopped  his 
team  in  the  adjoining  field  and  listened,  thinking 
Jerry  was  shouting  for  help.  Mrs.  Mason  put  her 
head  out  of  the  back  door ;  she,  too,  had  heard 


134  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Jerry,  and  feared  some  bad  accident  had  happened. 
A  moment  the  farmer  stood  still,  his  horses  turn 
ing  their  heads  in  the  direction  of  the  call,  and  the 
mother  leaned  and  listened  in  trembling  anxiety  ; 
but  the  door  closed  presently,  and  the  farmer 
ploughed  on  again :  both  had  heard  Jerry  say  to 
Henry  Gordon,  who  was  seen  running  with  his 
kite  across  the  field,  "  Don't  you  think,  our  old 
goose  has  got  goslings  !  " 

•  That  was  enough  to  make  any  boy  climb  to  the 
top  of  a  stump  and  shout  for  joy,  Jerry  thought. 
How  many  she  had  he  did  not  know,  but  he  would 
not  be  surprised  to  find  that  every  egg  was 
hatched,  —  three  of  the  golden  little  creatures  he 
saw,  he  is  sure,  and  if  the  old  goose  would  only 
come  off  the  nest  he  could  soon  tell ;  he  would  dare 
get  a  stick  and  drive  her  off,  but  he  thinks  he 
won't. 

"  What  is  it !  what  is  it !  "  cries  Henry  Gordon, 
running  as  fast  as  he  can,  and  quite  regardless  of 
the  kite  that  drags  along  the  ground  as  he  runs. 
"What  is  it !  have  you  found  a  bag  of  gold  ?  " 

He  is  older  by  two  or  three  years  than  Jerry, 
and  wears  much  finer  clothes,  but  he  is  not  a  finer 
looking  boy,  for  all  that.  His  boots  are  of  the 
finest  leather,  and  polished  very  bright,  —  brighter 
than  Jerry's  best  ones,  which  he  only  wears  of  Sun 
days,  which  hang  over  a  peg  at  the  head  of  his  bed 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  135 

in  his  mother's  garret ;  and  his  hat  is  so  fresh  and 
new,  and  the  ends  of  the  green  ribbon  tied  around 
it  flutter  so  gayly,  that  Jerry  is  abashed  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  says  he  fears  Henry  will  not  be  paid  for 
having  run  so  fast,  and  especially  if  he  has  spoiled 
his  fine  kite  into  the  bargain  ;  that  he  has  not  any 
thing  worth  showing,  —  some  little  goslings,  that 
is  all.  But  Henry  has  never  seen  a  gosling,  for  it 
is  only  lately  that  he  has  come  from  a  great  city ; 
and  he  says  the  old  kite  is  of  no  value,  he  can  get 
as  many  better  ones  as  he  pleases  ;  he  rather 
hopes  it  is  spoiled,  and  so  by  its  string  he  winds  it 
up  to  him,  and,  tossing  it  at  the  feet  of  Jerry,  be 
stows  it  on  him  in  a  patronizing  sort  of  way  that 
would  have  offended  him  if  he  had  not  felt  in  his 
heart  that  he  was  equal  to  any  boy  anywhere. 

When  the  goose  had  been  fed,  and  the  goslings 
too,  Jerry  showed  his  new  friend  the  stone  bridge 
across  the  brook,  which  bridge,  both  concluded, 
might  be  greatly  beautified  and  improved  if  they 
would  unite  their  strength  and  ingenuity  and  give 
a  day  to  the  work.  He  showed  him  his  mother's 
cow,  and  assured  him  that  he  dare  plat  her  tail  to 
gether,  count  the  rings  on  her  horns,  or  even  go 
up  to  her  on  the  "  wrong  side  "  ! 

Then  they  went  to  the  cow-shed  where  the  straw 
was  in  which  the  hens  made  their  nests,  and  after 
this  to  the  garden,  where  Henry  pulled  some  of  the 


136  SNOW-BERRIES. 

finest  flowers  for  his  little  neighbor.  When  it  was 
dinner-time  and  Jerry's  mother  called  him,  his 
young  friend  went  into  the  house  with  him,  and 
partook,  with  great  relish,  of  the  simple  meal  that 
was  spread. 

When  he  went  away  he  invited  Jerry  to  come  to 
his  house  and  ride  his  horse,  and  go  gunning  with 
him,  which  Jerry  felt  would  be  a  great  delight  to 
him  to  do,  and  which  he  afterward  did  many  times ; 
for  from  that  day  Henry  and  Jerry  were  excellent 
friends,  working  and  playing  together  a  great  deal. 
The  rich  man's  son  soon  lost  a  good  deal  of  the  fool 
ish  pretension  he  had  at  first,  and  what  he  did  not 
lose  Jerry  readily  forgave.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he 
would  throw  off  his  coat  and  strip  away  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  enter  with  hearty  good-will  into 
whatever  was  to  be  done.  They  went  together  to 
the  same  school,  for  there  was  but  one  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  once  or  twice  had  hats  and  jack 
ets  alike.  They  gathered  nuts  together,  and  ber 
ries  ;  made  hay  together,  and  picked  apples  ; 
shouted,  and  sung,  and  made  whistles,  and  drove 
the  cows  home  one  with  another.  Then,  too,  0 
idle  dreaming  !  they  made  plans  for  the  years  to 
come,  —  plans  of  what  they  would  do  when  they 
were  men.  They  would  always  be  neighbors,  and 
divide  whatever  they  had,  just  as  they  did  their  gos 
lings  and  hollyhocks  now. 


THE   CHARMED  MONEY,  137 

;c  Why  don't  you  come  to  see  my  mother  ?  " 
said  Henry  often  to  Mrs.  Mason,  for  he  could  not 
see  why  the  mothers  of  such  friends  should  not  be 
friends   too.      And   Mrs.   Mason  always  said   she 
would  like  to  do  so  if  she  could  get  time,  but  some 
how  it  happened  that  she  never  did  find  time,  and 
never  went.     Mrs.  Gordon  rode  in  her  fine  carriage 
to  a  fine  church  on  Sundays,  and  wore  a  silk  gown 
and  her  hair  in  curls.     Mrs.  Mason  put  her  hair 
plainly  under  a  plain  cap,  and  walked  across  the 
meadow  to  the  school-house  to  attend  service.    Mrs. 
Gordon  dined   sumptuously  at  five,  Mrs.   Mason 
simply  at  twelve  ;  one  lived  in  a  big  house  and  was 
served  by  a  good  many  maids  and  men,  the  other 
in  a  very  small  house  serving  herself;  the  one  saw 
the  sun  shine  through  a  lace  curtain,  and  the  other 
through  rose-vines.     So  it  was  that  Mrs.  Gordon 
said,  "  Thank  you,  my  dear,  it  will  give  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  when  I  have  an  hour  to  spare," 
in    answer   to  Jerry's   invitation  of,  "  You   must 
come  and  see  my  mother."     And  so  it  happened 
that  she  never  found  an  hour  to  spare,  and  never 
went  to  see  Jerry's  mother. 

Three  years  went  by  of  the  closest  friendship  be 
tween  the  lads,. and  all  this  time  they  did  not  un 
derstand  exactly  why  their  mothers  could  not  find 
time  to  visit  each  other.  It  was  the  greatest  pleas 
ure  to  Henry  to  go  with  bare  feet  across  the  nicely 


138  SNOW-BERRIES. 

scoured  floor  of  Mrs.  Mason,  and  to  sit  with  her 
and  Jerry,  where  the  roses  looked  in  at  the  win 
dow,  and  partake  of  her  home-made  cakes  and 
bread,  and  eat  her  preserved  fruits,  which  were 
never  so  good  at  home  ;  the  wind  came  in  so  fresh 
and  sweet  from  the  hay-field  beyond  the  hollow, 
and  the  birds  made  such  music  in  the  garden,  and 
Mrs.  Mason  had  such  a  sweet  voice  and  a  pleasant 
way,  his  mother  would  be  delighted,  he  was  sure, 
if  she  could  only  find  time  to  come  to  the  cottage. 
Mrs.  Mason  sat  by  the  fire  waiting  for  Jerry, 
who  had  gone  to  carry  a  fine  yellow  pumpkin  of 
his  own  raising  to  Henry's  mother,  that  Henry 
might  have  some  just  such  pies  as  he  was  to  have, 
—  sat  rocking  and  musing  before  the  bright  wood- 
fire,  wishing  somebody  would  come  in  and  cheer 
the  lonesomeness  a  little,  for  the  night  was  falling 
and  the  snow  lay  cold  and  smooth  everywhere,  far 
as  she  could  see.  The  straw-roofed  shed  of  the 
cow  was  beautified  like  a  queen's  chamber.  No 
king  could  put  such  a  roof  on  his  house  as  the 
snow  had  put  on  that.  The  fences  seemed  made 
of  pieces  of  snow,  the  trees  to  be  trees  of  snow, 
and  all  so  still  and  cold.  The  cock  went  early  to 
bed,  fluttering  the  white  shower  from  the  limb  of 
the  tree  that  lodged  him,  —  fluttering  it  down  as 
though  he  did  not  care  for  it  at  all,  and  turning  his 
bright  eyes  to  his  mates  that  sat  beside  him,  sober 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  139 

and  uncomfortable  enough.  He  was  rather  glad, 
for  his  part,  that  so  cold  and  snowy  a  night  was 
come  ;  it  brought  out  his  gallantry  and  his  forti 
tude.  But  generally  the  aspect  of  things  without, 
in  spite  of  all  the  beauty,  was  cheerless.  The  tea, 
in  the  old  teapot  cracked  and  bound  with  hoops  of 
tin,  had  been  simmering  a  good  while,  the  fire  be 
gan  to  make  a  little  red  light  on  the  snow  beneath 
the  window,  and  a  candle  to  be  needed  in  the  dim 
room  where  Jerry's  mother  sat,  when  she  heard 
the  creaking  of  the  gate,  and,  rising,  looked  out  of 
the  window.  It  was  growing  quite  dusky  ;  and 
though  she  saw  two  boys  coming  toward  the  door, 
she  could  not  at  first  believe  it  was  Jerry  and 
Henry,  so  quietly  they  came,  arm  in  arm,  and  talk 
ing  so  low  and  so  earnestly.  What  could  it  mean  ? 
Of  all  times  this  was  the  one  to  make  them  merry, 
for  there  is  more  exhilaration  in  snow  than  in  wine, 
and  birds  and  boys  are  alike  fond  of  dipping  into 
it,  and  chirping  and  chattering  when  it  lies  over 
the  ground  loose  and  white.  Close  came  the 
young  friends  past  rose-bushes  and  lilacs  all 
wrapped  so  prettily,  and  never  once  did  they  turn 
to  look  or  dash  the  white  weights  from  the  bending 
twigs.  Nor  did  they  step  aside  from  the  open  path 
and  break  their  way,  ploughing  off  snow-furrows  as 
they  came,  as  boys  love  to  do.  No  merry  voices 
rang  through  the  clear  silence  ;  but  soberly  and 


140  SNOW-BERRIES. 

straightforward  they  came,  as  if  the  snow  had 
buried  beneath  it  some  great  joy. 

And  so,  indeed,  it  had.  They  were  about  to  be 
separated  for  a  long,  long  while.  It  had  been  de 
cided  at  home  that  Henry  should  go  away  to  a  mil 
itary  school,  -not  to  come  home  for  six  months, 
or  it  might  be  for  a  year. 

Jerry's  mother  was  sad  enough  when  she  heard 
the  news  ;  and  to  keep  the  moisture  from  gathering 
to  drops  iii  her  eyes,  she  rubbed  the  tin  hoops  of 
her  blue  teapot  with  the  towel,  till  they  shone 
again. 

Henry  said  he  was  sorry  he  was  to  go  ;  but  for 
all  of  his  saying  so,  he  was  not  as  sorry  as  Jerry 
was.  He  had  new  boots  and  a  new  coat  and  hat, 
and  a  number  of  other  things  of  which  he  was  fully 
conscious  all  the  while.  Then,  too,  he  would  write 
every  day,  and  it  would  be  almost  the  same  as  see 
ing  him,  and  he  would  come  home  often,  for  Henry 
had  been  used  to  having  his  own  way,  and  could 
not  think  but  that  his  will  would  still  be  his  law, 
as  it  always  had  been. 

The  next  day  Jerry  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
gate-post,  and  watched  the  carriage  that  took  Henry 
from  him  drive  away.  Through  tears  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  his  little  friend,  but  his  little  friend 
did  not  once  look  toward  him. 

That  was  Jerry's  first  sorrow.     No  number  of 


THE   CHARMED  MONEY.  141 

yellow  goslings  could  have  brought  the  old  light 
into  his  red  eyes  that  morning  ;  no  pinks  nor 
daffodils,  though  the  garden  had  been  full  of  them, 
could  have  seemed  to  him  bright  as  the  smile  of 
his  playmate. 

A  letter  was  promised  him  by  the  first  mail ;  and 
all  the  interval  seemed  to  Jerry  a  blank,  a  time  of 
nothing,  that  he  would  be  glad  to  push  right  along 
and  have  done  with.  It  would  not  be  seeing  his 
friend,  but  it  would  be  something  ;  it  would  be  a 
great  thing :  he  had  never  received  a  letter  in 
his  life,  sealed  and  meant  all  for  him.  He  won 
dered  how  it  would  begin  and  how  it  would  end, 
and  what,  in  fact,  his  friend  would  say,  and  how  he 
would  say  it.  One  thing  would  be  in  it,  that  he 
knew,  that  Henry  was  very  lonesome  and  wanted 
to  see  him  so  bad.  That  would  be  in  the  letter, 
and  he  was  not  sure  but  that  it  would  be  in  it  a 
great  many  times  ;  indeed,  it  was  not  unlikely  the 
entire  letter  would  be  made  up  of  love  for  him  and 
anxiety  to  see  him.  Henry  knew  so  much  and 
would  have  learned  so  much,  even  in  three  days, 
at  a  military  school,  that  he  supposed  the  letter 
would  be  a  model,  —  and  what  an  advantage  to 
him  to  have  such  a  fine  friend  ! 

And  at  last  the  day  011  which  the  mail  was  ex 
pected  was  come,  and  at  last  it  went  by  and  was 
time  to  go  to  the  post-office,  two  miles  from  his 


142  SNOW-BERRIES. 

mother's  house.  The  snow  was  deep  and  it  was 
cold  after  sunset,  but  little  cared  Jerry  for  that  ; 
he  would  run  because  he  could  not  help  it,  and 
that  would  keep  him  warm  ;  and,  besides,  if  a  boy 
thought  much  of  a  boy  and  wrote  him  so,  he  would 
feel  bad  to  know  a  boy  did  not  think  enough  of  a 
boy  to  go  after  the  letter,  because  it  was  a  little 
cold.  So  buttoning  the  old  coat  that  was  outgrown 
and  a  good  deal  worn,  Jerry  set  out,  never  mind 
ing  the  still  air  that  almost  cut  his  face,  as  if  it 
tried  to  thrust  him  back  into  the  warm  house, 
never  minding  the  white,  cold  glimmer  of  the  stars 
that  seemed  to  say,  "  It 's  no  use,"  never  minding 
anything,  because  he  was  a  boy  that  liked  a  boy, 
and  supposed  a  boy  liked  him  back  just  as  well. 
He  was  not  long  in  walking  the  two  miles.  He 
did  not  once  think  he  might  have  gone  faster  and 
with  more  comfort  if  Mrs.  Gordon  had  offered 
him  Henry's  pony  to  ride,  when  she  asked  him 
to  bring  her  letters.  He  did  not  think  of  any 
thing  but  the  pleasure  he  would  have  in  breaking 
the  seal  and  reading  to  his  mother  every  word 
Henry  wrote.  The  two  miles  were  a  good  deal 
longer  when  Jerry  went  home,  not  because  he  was 
going  home,  and  not  because  it  was  more  up  hill ; 
it  was  a  good  deal  colder,  too,  and  his  coat  seemed 
thinner  ;  it  nearly  froze  his  hand  to  carry  the  bun 
dle  of  letters  and  papers  for  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  the 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  143 

sharp  wind  brought  the  water  to  his  eyes,  —  he 
had  no  letter  from  Henry.  An  ugly  distrust  came 
into  his  heart  as  he  went  along,  —  the  moon  might 
drop  right  down  out  of  the  sky,  for  all  he  knew, 
and  he  hardly  thought  it  unlikely  that  his  mother 
should  have  set  fire  to  the  house  and  run  away 
while  he  was  gone.  If  it  was  possible  that  Henry 
could  have  broken  his  "  word  and  honor,"  his 
"  double  word  and  honor,"  what  might  not  be  pos 
sible  ? 

Henry  was  not  sick,  for  there,  in  a  fair,  firm  hand, 
was  a  letter  to  his  parents. 

He  could  not  stop  and  ask  Mrs.  Gordon  if  Henry 
were  well ;  something  choked  him,  and  he  must  go 
home. 

An  hour  he  sat  on  a  stool  in  the  corner  and 
cried,  in  spite  of  all  his  mother  could  say  to 
soothe  him ;  but  at  last  when  she  told  him  to 
wipe  his  eyes  and  run  over  to  Mrs.  Gordon's  and 
see  what  was  in  Henry's  letter,  he  stifled  his  sobs 
and  obeyed. 

Mrs.  Gordon  looked  up  from  her  reading  as  Jer 
ry  came  in,  in  a  way  that  said  plainly  she  was  sur 
prised  and  annoyed  ;  and  when  little  Fanny  Gordon 
ran  from  listening  at  her  mother's  knee  and  offered 
Jerry  a  chair  at  the  fireside,  she  shook  her  head  at 
the  little  girl,  and  whispered  something  which  Jer 
ry  thought  meant  she  must  not  ask  him  to  sit 


144  SNOW-BERRIES. 

down.  Fanny  half  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's 
lap ;  but  she  turned  her  eyes  full  of  tears  and  sweet 
pity  toward  Jerry,  and  the  frown  of  the  mother 
lost  its  power  on  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  scarcely 
cared  whether  Henry  had  said  anything  about  him 
or  not. 

Every  mail  day  all  the  winter,  whether  it  were 
gusty  or  mild,  freezing  or  thawing,  Jerry  went  reg 
ularly  to  the  post-office,  but  there  was  never  any 
letter  for  him.  Once  little  Fanny  had  spoken  to 
him  through  the  fence,  and  told  him  that  her 
brother  Henry  had  written  to  know  what  he  was 
doing  now-a-days,  and  said  that  he  should  write  to 
him  as  soon  as  he  found  time.  She  said,  too,  that 
when  she  went  away  to  school,  as  she  was  to  do  in  the 
spring,  she  would  write  a  letter  to  him,  and  she 
would  'not  tell  her  mother  nor  anybody  else  what 
she  wrote. 

After  this  Jerry  tried  to  make  excuses  for 
Henry,  —  he  was  very  busy,  no  doubt,  and  had  as 
many  letters  to  write  home  as  he  could  find  time  to 
do  ;  and  as  he  worked,  spading  the  garden,  he  often 
tried  to  work  out  a  letter  in  his  brain.  But  he 
could  not  tell  very  well  how  to  begin,  nor  how  to 
end,  nor  what  to  say,  —  a  boy  in  a  military  school 
might  not  feel  much  like  a  boy  spading  in  his 
mother's  garden. 

The  old  goose  brought  out  her  troop  of  young 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  145 

goslings  again";  the  flowers  all  looked  over  the  gar 
den  fence  toward  "  Fanny's  house,"  as  Jerry  fan 
cied  ;  the  heads  of  the  cabbages  were  hardening, 
and   their  great  gray  leaves   lopping  toward   the 
ground  again.     Jerry  could  not  go  to  school  now 
as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  smaller,  but  had  to 
stay  at  home  and  work.     Fanny  was  gone  away  to 
school  now,  and  had  kept  her  promise  and  written 
a  letter  to  Jerry,  —  a  very  little  letter  made  up  of 
very  little  sentences,  and  with  a  superscription  that 
made  three  very  crooked  lines  all  across  and  across 
the  envelope.     To  Jerry's  thinking,  however,  there 
never  was  a  much  better  letter  written.     All  the 
time  he  kept  it  in  his  pocket,  reading  it  again  and 
again  as  often  as  he  found  leisure,  though  he  knew 
every  word  from  first  to  last.     He  could  not  bear 
to  put  it  away  with  his  few  books  ;  it  seemed  like 
a  free  ticket  to  the  good-will  of  everybody  ;  so  he 
kept  it,  as  I  said,  all  the  time  in  his  pocket.     He 
found  the  distrust  that  he  had  had  in  his  heart 
since  Henry  went  away  growing  rapidly  less,  and 
now  and  then  he  suspected  that  he  had  been  very 
wicked  in  imagining  the  moon  could  fall,  or  his 
mother  burn  up  the  house  and  run  away.     Sud 
denly  he  stopped  from  his  working,  tired,  but  look 
ing  well  pleased ;  he  had  been  very  industrious  and 
done  a  full  day's  work,  though  it  wanted  yet  three 
hours  of  night.     He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 


146  SNOW-BERRIES. 

write  to  Henry  ;  for  since  Fanny  had  written  him, 
"  I  am  very  well ;  I  hope  you  are  very  well.  I 
don't  like  here  so  well  as  home.  Do  your  gos 
lings  grow  ?  Have  you  heard  from  Henry?"  he 
had  felt  that  everybody  he  knew  liked  him,  and 
would  be  glad  to  know  how  well  he  was  doing. 
So  the  happiness  he  thought  he  should  give  to 
another  was  all  bright  in  his  face  as  he  hung  his 
hoe  in  the  pear-tree,  and  breaking  three  cabbage- 
leaves,  not  crooked  and  deep  green,  but  fair  and 
gray  with  bloom,  made  his  way  to  the  brookside, 
where  the  shadow  of  a  maple  lay  thick  and  cool, 
and  near  where  the  stone  bridge  caused  the  water 
to  stop  and  make  some  silver  talk  before  it  went 
over. 

From  the  cherry-tree  by  the  door  he  had  brought 
some  little  withes,  and  having  sharpened  them  with 
his  teeth,  began  the  composition  of  a  letter,  —  using 
his  hat-crown  for  a  desk,  the  cabbage-leaves  for 
paper,  and  the  twigs  for  pens.  Never  was  poet 
wrapped  more  happily  in  a  dream  than  he  in  his 
work,  when  all  at  once  he  became  conscious  of 
footsteps  and  heard  a  voice,  not  unfamiliar,  except 
in  its  derision,  say,  "  Ha,  boy  !  I  say  you  ought  to 
take  out  a  patent  for  that  sort  of  paper :  how  are 
you,  though  ?  "  Jerry's  senses  were  a  good  deal 
bewildered,  and  he  could  not  believe  at  first  it  was 
Henry  Gordon  who  stood  before  him,  resting  his 


THE   CHARMED    MONEY. 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  147 

polished  gun  on  the  ground,  holding  a  cigar  in  one 
hand,  and  surveying  him  with  such  cool  indiffer 
ence. 

He  tried  to  rise  and  return  civilly  the  rude  salu 
tation  of  the  young  cadet ;  and  as  he  advanced  he 
saw  that  Henry  was  not  alone,  but  accompanied 
by  a  youth  whom  he  introduced  as  a  classmate, 
naming  Jerry  as  a  boy  he  used  to  know  ;  asking 
Jerry  how  things  were  getting  on  in  his  line,  and 
saying  that,  as  regarded  himself,  he  hoped  his  soul 
had  got  a  little  above  potatoes  during  his  absence. 
He  did  not  speak  even  of  Jerry's  mother,  who  had 
done  him  so  many  favors  ;  and  to  complete  the  in 
sult,  he  tossed  at  Jerry,  as  he  passed  along,  a  small 
piece  of  money,  saying,  "  Take  that,  boy,  and  buy 
you  a  copy-book  and  a  pen  or  two." 

Jerry  did  not  speak  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  could  never 
speak  again  ;  he  could  hardly  persuade  himself 
that  it  was  indeed  Henry  Gordon  who  had  stood 
but  now  before  him,  and  as  long  as  he  could  see 
gazed  the  way  he  was  going.  The  very  buttons  of 
his  coat  seemed  to  mock  him  with  their  shining ; 
and  there  lay  the  money  on  the  ground  at  his  feet, 
and  the  cabbage-leaves  wilting  in  the  sun,  for 
where  the  shadow  had  been  an  hour  ago  the  sun 
shone  hot  enough  now. 

All  the  world  was  changed,  and  it  seemed  for  a 
little  while  not  only  possible,  but  highly  probable, 


148  SNOW-BERRIES. 

that  his  mother  might  set  fire  to  the  house  and  run 
away,  and  the  moon  drop  out  of  the  sky  ;  if  any 
thing  could  stay  back  such  events,  it  would  be  the 
letter  from  Fanny.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
to  be  sure  that  it  was  still  there  ;  and,  stooping, 
picked  up  the  piece  of  money  and  placed  it  in  the 
opposite  pocket,  to  keep  balance.  Fanny's  letter 
should  teach  him  the  world  was  not  all  bad  ;  that 
piece  of  money,  that  it  was  not  all  good.  In  itself 
it  was  but  a  harmless  piece  of  money,  and  he  would 
not  have  known  it  from  a  thousand  others, 
but  it  had  been  in  contact  with  the  hand  that 
shrunk  away  from  him ;  it  had  been  flung  at  him 
in  charity,  —  at  him  a  boy  as  good  as  any  other 
boy,  as  honest  and  as  honorable.  In  all  respects 
he  was  not  Henry's  equal,  to  be  sure,  but  he  would 
set  to  work  that  very  day  and  make  himself  so.  If 
he  had  not  had  Henry's  advantages,  neither  had 
Henry  had  his  !  And  straight  he  set  out  for  home. 
His  heart  misgave  him  almost  when  he  reached 
the  door  and  saw  the  tea-table  spread  in  holiday ' 
style,  and  for  three.  Mrs.  Mason  had  learned  that 
Henry  was  come  home,  and  was  thinking  what  a 
pleasant  time  they  would  all  have  once  more.  It 
was  hard  to  tell  his  good  dear  mother  that  he  had 
already  seen  Henry,  and  how  he  had  seen  him. 
More  than  once,  as  they  sat  together,  Jerry's 
mother  arose  from  the  table  to  attend  some  little 


THE   CHARMED    MONEY.  149 

duty,  she  said,  but  in  truth  it  was  to  dry  her  eyes  ; 
and  more  than  once  Jerry  said  he  did  not  care 
what  Henry  Gordon  thought  of  him  ;  but  his 
mother  knew  it  was  because  he  cared  a  great  deal 
that  he  said  so. 

Already  his  mind  was  stung  into  activity,  and  a 
development  was  going  on,  of  which  he  was  not 
himself  aware. 

Years  of  persevering  endeavor,  of  hard  work 
with  the  hands  and  harder  with  the  brain,  we  pass 
by?  —  years  in  which  hope  has  been  busy  with  him, 
so  busy  that  he  has  felt  the  steep  way  they  have 
climbed  together  less  toilsome.  Teachers  and 
schools  have  not  been  accessible  to  him  much,  ex 
cept,  indeed,  the  common  school  of  humanity  and 
the  great  teacher,  God,  in  his  works.  These 
works  he  has  read  and  reread  ;  these  he  has  stud 
ied,  and  he  has  studied  himself,  and  his  duties  to 
himself  and  his  fellows.  He  feels  the  nobility  of 
true  and  honest  manhood,  afraid  of  nothing  but 
doing  wrong,  ambitious  of  nothing  but  coining  the 
ability  with  which  he  has  been  endowed  to  right 
use.  For  he  is  not  ambitious  to  serve  the  world 
nor  the  state,  —  measured  against  such  great  re 
quirements  he  feels  unequal ;  he  is  content  with 
making  even  a  little  spot  of  earth  greener  for  his 
having  lived  ;  he  thinks  it  something  of  an  achieve 
ment  to  turn  weeds  into  good  rich  soil,  and  make 


150  SNOW-BERRIES. 

wheat  or  roses  grow  where,  but  for  him,  barrenness 
would  have  been.  He  does  not  believe  he  could 
have  made  himself  a  poet  if  he  had  mortised  rhymes 
together  never  so  ingeniously  ;  nor  does  he  suppose 
he  could  manage  the  affairs  of  nations,  because 
he  can  manage  a  plough.  Nevertheless,  he  is  a 
proud  man,  —  proud  of  his  cleared  land  and  of  his 
woodland,  —  proud  of  his  brooks  and  of  his  cows, 
—  of  his  harvests  and  of  his  garden,  —  of  his  beau 
tiful  cottage,  —  of  the  vines  about  the  porch  and 
of  the  well-bound  volumes  that  shine  row  over  row 
against  the  wall,  —  of  his  mother,  sitting  beside 
him  so  comfortable  and  so  respectable,  —  proud 
that  he  owes  no  man  anything,  and  proud  that  he 
is  not  proud  in  any  mean  and  selfish  sense. 

A  thousand  times  he  might  have  resented  the 
old  insult  of  the  piece  of  money,  but  he  feels  that 
"  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even,"  and  he  is  quite 
contented  to  wait,  —  so  well  content,  indeed,  that 
there  is  no  waiting  to  do.  He  could  not  have 
been  so  well  avenged  any  way  as  he  is  by  his  indif 
ference. 

It  is  the  middle  of  June,  and  the  garden  is  full 
of  flowers  that  still  look  toward  Mrs.  Gordon's  a 
good  deal,  though  Jerry  says  he  don't  care  which 
way  they  look ;  but  we  are  quite  sure  they  would 
not  be  so  many  nor  so  bright  if  there  were  no  bright 
eyes  looking  down  upon  them  from  the  opposite 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY. 

windows.  There  are  bright  flowers  immediately 
under  the  windows  where  the  bright  eyes  are  gaz 
ing  fortli  so  often  ;  but  to  those  eyes  the  flowers  in 
the  distance  show  the  best. 

Fanny  is  a  woman  now,  and  though  she  sends 
no  more  letters  to  her  friend  Jerry  that  no  one 
knows  anything  of,  she  sends  a  great  many  glances 
as  full  of  kindly  meaning  as  were  the  little  sen 
tences  sent  him  so  long  ago.     She  has  been  home 
from  school  a  whole  year  ;  and  though  many  times, 
m  her  walks  and  drives,  she  has  met  Jerry,  and 
smiled  upon  him  very  sweetly,  he  has  returned  her 
smiles   with   only   formal   politeness.      Of  course 
Fanny  Gordon  does  not  care  much  for  the  like  of 
him,  —  that  is  what  he  says  to  himself,  and  so  he 
keeps  up  a  show  of  indifference  that  he  is  very  far 
from  feeling.  • 

Henry  has  been  at  home  a  long  time,  too,  spend 
ing  his  time  in  idleness  and  in  worse  than  idleness, 
so  rumor  says,  and  that  things  are  growing  from 
bad  to  worse  with  the  Gordons.  Still  they  manage 
to  keep  up  an  outside  show,  and  hold  their  heads 
much  above  working-people  like  the  Masons.  But 
when  the  foundation  is  undermined,  the  time  will 
come  that  the  house  must  fall,  and  that  time  came 
to  the  Gordons. 

It  was  early  autumn ;  there  was  a  little  fire  on 
the  hearth,  but  the  door  toward  the  flower-gar- 


152  SNOW-BERRIES. 

den  stood  open,  and  Jerry  sat  in  the  door  watch 
ing  the  moonlight  as  it  played  along  the  grass  and 
shone  among  the  stalks  of  such  of  the  hardier  blos 
soms  as  yet  remained. 

All  at  once  his  heart  gave  a  little  start,  —  was 
it  some  bird  rustling  among  the  dry  leaves  ?  No, 
it  was  the  step  of  Fanny  rustling  along  the  fall 
en  leaves.  She  came  without  hesitation,  without 
blushing,  straight  to  where  Jerry  was  sitting.  "  I 
could  not  go  away,"  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand 
to  him,  "  without  first  coming  to  bid  your  mother 
and  you  good  by  !  " 

«  Go  away,  Fanny  !  Where  are  you  going,  and 
why?"  cried  Jerry,  surprised  into  cordiality  and 
earnestness. 

Then  Fanny  sat  down  beside  him  in  the  moon 
light  and  told  him  where  she  was  going,  and  why. 
""bur  fortune  is  all  gone,  and  somebody  must  do 
something,"  she  concluded. 

"But  why  should  you  go  away  to  do  some 
thing?" 

"Because,"  Fanny  answered,  "we  have  no- 
friends  here ! "  and  then  her  voice  first  faltered, 
and  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  No  friends  1 "  said  Jerry ;  "  with  my  mother 
and  myself  here?  0  Fanny,  how  can  you  say 

that?" 

Then  she  told  him  that  she  was  sure  there  was 


THE   CHARMED   MONEY.  153 

no  reason  why  himself  and  his  mother  should  be 
their  friends  ;  but  at  any  rate,  they  had  no  others, 
and  she  was  going  away  to  teach  school,  or  to 
learn  to  sew,  or  to  do  something  by  which  she 
could  take  care  of  herself.  "  Just  think,  Jerry," 
she  says,  "  I  have  not  a  glove  to  my  hand  !  "  And 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  red  as  a  rose  with 
the  evening  chill. 

Jerry  took  it  between  both  his.  "  And  suppose, 
Fanny,  I  should  always  keep  it  this  way,"  he  said, 
"  you  would  not  need  a  glove,  would  you  ?  " 

Fanny's  face  was  all  bright  with  blushes  when 
Mrs.  Mason  came  to  say  that  supper  was  ready ; 
and  the  plac'e  she  took  at  the  table  that  night  be 
came  hers  for  all  her  life  before  long ;  for,  of  course, 
she  and  Jerry  were  married,  and  two  birds  were 
never  happier  under  the  mother's  wing  than  were 
they  with  the  mother  of  Jerry.  Everything  pros 
pered  with  them,  and  by  and  by  they  were  the  rich 
people  in  the  town  where  they  lived,  and  not  the 
Gordons  at  all. 

One  dreary  night,  when  the  outside  show  could 
not  be  kept  up  any  longer,  when  they  were  in  fact 
reduced  to  the  last  sixpence,  they  sat  together, 
Mrs.  Gordon  and  her  son  Henry,  lamenting  their 
hard  fortune,  and  blaming  each  other,  and  blam 
ing  Fanny,  whom  they  had  never  been  to  visit,  and 
blaming  everything  but  their  own  foolish  pride  and 


154  SNOW^BERRIES. 

perverseness  for  the  ruin  and  degradation  that  was 
now  impending. 

Both  started  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep ;  it  was 
a  creditor's,  no  doubt. 

"  What  brought  you  here  ?  I  don't  owe  you 
anything  !  "  exclaimed  Henry,  sullenly,  when  he 
saw  that  the  visitor  was  Jerry  Mason. 

"  No,"  replied  Jerry,  "  but  I  owe  you  a  great 
deal "  ;  and  taking  from  his  pocket  the  piece  of 
money  Harry  had  flung  at  him  so  long  ago,  he 
laid  it  down  on  the  table  before  him.  Henry 
trembled  and  blushed  for  shame ;  but  when  Jerry 
took  his  hand  and  said,  "  This  piece  of  money  has 
been  a  charm  that  has  kept  me  from,  idleness  and 
uselessness ;  it  has  added  to  my  lands  and  built 
me  a  house,  beautified  my  garden,  clothed  my 
mother,  and  made  her  old  age  happy  and  respecta 
ble,  developed  my  own  manhood,  and  crowned  me 
with  the  love  of  the  best  of  women.  For  all  this 
I  owe  you  something,  and  I  am  come  to  pay  you. 
Take  first  this  money  and  see  what  it  can  do  for 
you.  You  are  yet  in  the  prime  of  life  and  can  re 
trieve  and  achieve  everything ;  come  with  me  with 
as  hearty  a  good-will  as  you  came  to  look  at  my 
goslings,  and  we  will  devise  the  way."  Henry 
took  the  hand  extended  to  him,  and  brushing  the 
tears  from  his  eyes,  —  the  first  ones  that  had  wet 
them  for  long  years,  —  said  in  accents  that  trem- 


TO  A   STAGNANT   POND.  155 

bled,  "  I  will  go,  Jerry,  if  you  think  I  am  worth  sav 
ing  ;  and  my  mother  shall  go  too.  Come,  mother ! " 
So  all  three  went  together,  and  Fanny  met  and 
embraced  them  ;  and  then  they  sat  down  together 
and  made  plans  for  the  future,  and  that  was  the 
happiest  night  of  their  lives. 


TO   A   STAGNANT    POND, 

OPOND  of  the  meadow, 
So  low  and  so  black, 
Say  why  are  you  lying  thus, 
Flat  on  your  back  ! 

Week  in  and  week  out, 

And  from  night  until  morn, 

You  have  been  doing  nothing 
Since  first  you  were  born. 

Now  if  you  are  not  dead. 

But  only  just  dumb, 
Get  up,  sir,  and  take  off 

Your  jacket  of  scum ! 

No  sweet  little  flower 

To  your  dull  bosom  bends; 


156  SNOW-BERRIES. 

You  have  only  the  hop-toad 
And  snake  for  your  friends ! 

No  bird  to  your  dark  wave 
Comes  twittering  down, 

And  the  grass  all  about  you 
Is  withered  and  brown. 

It  is  time,  and  high  time, 
You  were  setting  to  work, 

You  sordid,  unlovable, 
Beggarly  shirk ! 

Just  think,  with  your  brow 
Into  black  wrinkles  curled, 

You  never  have  gladdened 
A  heart  in  the  world ! 

And  if  you  would  henceforth 
Escape  from  abuse, 

Get  up,  I  beseech  you, 
And  be  of  some  use ! 

Close  at  hand,  only  hid  by 
The  sheep-grazing  hill, 

Your  gad-about  sister 
Is  turning  a  mill. 

Her  path  is  so  pleasant, 
Her  smile  is  so  bright, 

The  flocks  stay  about  her 
All  day  and  all  night. 


TO   A  STAGNANT   POND.  157 

The  wild  mint  leans  lowly, 

Her  kiss  is  so  sweet, 
And  the  stones  that  she  treads  on 

Sing  under  her  feet. 

With  foam-flowers  always 

Her  wet  locks  are  crowned, 
And  her  bushes  with  berries 

Blush  all  the  year  round. 

She  counts  not  the  mill-work 

As  doing  her  wrong, 
But  makes  the  wheel  partner, 

And  dances  along. 

And  so,  with  her  life 

And  her  labor  content, 
She  is  queen  of  the  meadow 

By  common  consent. 

Now  here  is  a  secret, 

Receive  it  in  faith,  — 
True  life  is  in  action, 

Stagnation  is  death. 

And  this  you  may  learn 

From  your  sister,  the  brook, 
As  though  it  were  written 

And  bound  in  a  book. 


158  SNOW-BERRIES. 

You  die  in  your  torpor, 
She  rests  in  her  strife, 

Because  she  is  keeping 
The  law  of  her  life. 

And  would  you  be  happy 
As  she  at  her  mill, 

Throw  off  your  scum  jacket, 
And  work  with  a  will. 


THE   POET   TO   THE   PAINTER. 

PAINTER,  paint  me  a  sycamore, 
A  spreading  and  snowy-limbed  tree, 
Making  cool  shelter  for  three, 
And  like  a  green  quilt  at  the  door 
Of  the  cabin  near  the  tree, 
Picture  the  grass  for  me, 
"With  a  winding  and  dusty  road  before, 
Not  far  from  the  group  of  three, 
And  the  silver  sycamore-tree. 

'T  will  take  your  finest  skill  to  draw 
From  that  happy  group  of  three, 
Under  the  sycamore-tree, 

The  little  girl  in  the  hat  of  straw 

And  the  faded  frock,  for  she 


THE  POET  TO  THE  PAINTER.        159 

Is  as  fair  as  fair  can  be. 
You  have  painted  frock  and  hat  complete ! 
Now  the  color  of  snow  you  must  paint  her  feet ; 
Her  cheeks  and  lips  from  a  strawberry-bed ; 
From  sunflower-fringes  her  shining  head. 

Now,  painter,  paint  the  hop-vine  swing 

Close  to  the  group  of  three, 
And  a  bird  with  bright  brown  eyes  and  wing, 

Chirping  merrily. 

"  Twit  twit,  twit  twit,  twee ! " 
That  is  all  the  song  he  makes, 
And  the  child  to  mocking  laughter  breaks. 

Answering,  "  Here  are  we, 

Father  and  mother  and  me !" 
Pretty  darling,  her  world  is  small,  — 
Father  and  mother  and  she  are  all. 

Ah,  painter,  your  hand  is  still ! 

You  have  made  the  group  of  three 

Under  the  sycamore-tree, 
But  you  cannot  make  all  the  skill 

Of  your  colors  say,  "  Twit  twit,  twee ! " 

Nor  the  answering,  "  Here  are  we, 

Father  and  mother  and  me." 
I  '11  be  a  poet,  and  paint  with  words 
Talking  children  and  chirping  birds. 


160  SNOW-BERRIES. 


ONLY    A    DREAM. 

"The  flighty  purpose  never  is  overtook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it." 

ONE  time,  when  lying  in  my  bed, 
Many  a  night  ago, 
Flying  and  flapping  over  my  head, 

There  went  a  cunning  crow. 
I  might  have  struck  the  creature  dead, 
She  sailed  so  near  and  slow. 

I  might  have  struck  her  as  she  went, 

(All  in  a  dream  lay  I,) 
But  thought  was  on  the  method  bent, 

My  fated  bird  should  die ; 
And  when  at  last  the  shaft  was  sent, 

The  archer's  time  was  by. 

«  O  cruel,  cunning  bird,"  I  said, 

«  What  made  you  fly  away  ? 
I  would  have  dyed  your  black  wings  red, 

With  but  a  moment's  stay. 
Then  you  had  flown  without  your  head, "  — 

(All  in  a  dream  I  lay.) 

Her  nest  was  in  a  giant  tree, 

So  safe  and  snug  and  high ; 
And  I  said,  "  If  there  your  young  ones  be, 

I  '11  kill  them  when  they  fly." 


ONLY   A. DREAM.  161 

'T  was  hard  just  then  to  climb  and  see,  — 
(All  in  a  dream  lay  I.) 

Afield  with  my  two  boys  one  morn, 

(This  was  the  vision's  close,) 
Each  with  a  basket  full  of  corn 

To  plant  the  furrowed  rows ; 
Right  over  us,  in  full-fledged  scorn, 

There  went  three  wicked  crows. 

"  You  might  have  killed  us  once,"  they  cried, 

"  Our  mother's  nest  you  knew  ; 
But  now  our  wings  are  strong  and  wide, 

And  we  can  caw  at  you  ! " 
Then  vanished  all  my  manhood's  pride,  — 

The  birds  had  spoken  true. 

"  O  father,"  said  my  boys  to  me, 

"  'T  is  plain  that  crows  will  lie ; 
You  knew  what  they  would  grow  to  be, 

Before  they  learned  to  fly, 
And  would  have  killed  them  in  the  tree,"  — 

(All  in  a  dream  lay  I.) 

Many  and  many  a  night  since  then 

I  've  called  to  mind  that  crow, 
And  thought  how  many  thousand  men 

Through  all  their  lifetime  go, 
Planning  out  times  and  seasons  when 

They  will  do  thus  and  so ; 

x 


162  SNOW-BERKIES. 

But  all  their  joys  are  shallow  joys, 
Their  praise  augments  their  woes ; 

For  I  remember  when  my  boys 
Denounced  the  taunting  crows, 

A  voice  inside  of  all  their  noise, 
Condemning  me,  arose. 


INVENTORY   OF  A  DRUNKARD. 

A  HUT  of  logs  without  a  door, 
Minus  a  roof  and  ditto  floor  ; 
A  clapboard  cupboard  without  crocks, 
Nine  children  without  shoes  or  frocks ; 
A  wife  that  has  not  any  bonnet 
With  ribbon  bows  and  strings  upon  it, 
Scolding  and  wishing  to  be  dead, 
Because  she  has  not  any  bread.  - 

A  teakettle  without  a  spout, 

A  meat-cask  with  the  bottom  out, 

A  "  comfort "  with  the  cotton  gone, 

And  not  a  bed  to  put  it  on. 

A  handle  without  any  axe, 

A  hatchel  without  wool  or  flax  ; 

A  potlid  and  a  wagon-hub, 

And  two  ears  of  a  washing-tub  ; 

Three  broken  plates  of  different  kinds, 

Some  mackerel  tails  and  bacon-rinds  ; 


HUNTER'S   SONG.  163 

A  table  without  leaves  or  legs, 
One  chair,  and  half  a  dozen  pegs, 
One  oaken  keg  with  hoops  of  brass, 
One  tumbler  of  dark-green  glass  ; 
A  fiddle  without  any  strings, 
A  gunstock,  and  two  turkey  wings. 

O  readers  of  this  inventory, 

Take  warning  by  its  graphic  story ; 

For  little  any  man  expects, 

Who  wears  good  shirts  with  buttons  in  'em, 

Ever  to  put  on  cotton  checks, 

And  only  have  brass  pins  to  pin  'em  ! 

'T  is,  remember,  little  stitches 

Keep  the  rent  from  growing  great ; 

When  you  can't  tell  beds  from  ditches, 

Warning  words  will  be  too  late. 


HUNTER'S    SONG. 

I  KNOW  a  mountain  high, 
With  its  head  against  the  sky, 
Where  the  stormy  eagles  fly 

East  and  west ; 

There,  at  morning's  ruddy  gleam, 
And  in  evening's  purple  beam, 
I  have  heard  the  nursling  scream 
From  the  nest ! 


164  SNOW-BERRIES. 

O,  I  love  that  mountain  high, 
With  its  head  against  the  sky, 
And  the  hungry  nurslings'  cry, 

All  forlorn ; 

For  as  winds  went  to  and  fro, 
Cutting  furrows  through  the  snow, 
In  a  hunter's  hut  so  low, 

I  was  born. 

O,  I  love  the  rocky  glade, 
Where  my  little  brothers  played, 
Where  together  they  are  laid 

In  green  beds ; 

With  a  water  murmuring  nigh 
Its  eternal  lullaby, 
And  a  blue  strip  of  the  sky 

At  their  heads. 


HAGEN    WALDER. 

THE  day  with  a  cold,  dead  color 
Was  rising  over  the  hill, 
When  little  Hagen  Walder 
Went  out  to  grind  in  th'  mill. 

All  vainly  the  light  in  zigzags 
Fell  through  the  frozen  leaves, 

And  like  a  broidery  of  gold 
Shone  on  his  ragged  sleeves. 


HAGEN  WALDEB.  165 

No  mother  had  he  to  brighten 

His  cheek  with  a  kiss,  and  say, 
"  'T  is  cold  for  my  little  Hagen 

To  grind  in  the  mill  to-day." 

And  that  was  why  the  north-winds 

Seemed  all  in  his  path  to  meet, 
And  why  the  stones  were  so  cruel 

And  sharp  beneath  his  feet. 

And  that  was  why  he  hid  his  face 

So  oft,  despite  his  will, 
Against  the  necks  of  the  oxen 

That  turned  the  wheel  in  th'  mill. 

And  that  was  why  the  tear-drops 

So  oft  did  fall  and  stand 
Upon  their  silken  coats  that  were 

As  white  as  a  lady's  hand. 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Looked  at  the  sea  and  th'  sky, 
And  wished  that  he  were  a  salmon 

In  the  silver  waves  to  lie ; 

And  wished  that  he  were  an  eagle, 

Away  through  th'  air  to  soar, 
Where  never  the  groaning  mill-wheel 

Might  vex  him  any  more  ; 


166  SNOW-BERRIES. 

And  wished  that  he  were  a  pirate, 
To  burn  some  cottage  down, 

And  warm  himself;  or  that  he  were 
A  market-lad  in  the  town, 

With  bowls  of  bright,  red  strawberries 

Shining  on  his  stall, 
And  that  some  gentle  maiden 

Would  come  and  buy  them  alL 

So  little  Hagen  Walder 

Passed,  as  the  story  says, 
Through  dreams,  as  through  a  golden  gate, 

Into  realities. 

And  when  the  years  changed  places, 
Like  the  billows,  bright  and  still, 

In  th'  ocean,  Hagen  Walder 
Was  the  master  of  the  mill. 

And  all  his  bowls  of  strawberries 

Were  not  so  fine  a  show 
As  are  his  boys  and  girls  at  church, 

Sitting  in  a  row. 


A   GOOSE   AND   A   CROW.  167 


A   GOOSE  AND  A   CROW. 


geese,  scarcely  knowing 
The  east  from  the  west, 
Got  on  to  the  water 

And  rode  off  abreast,  — 
Geese,  you  know,  are  not  famed 
For  their  wisdom,  at  best. 

Well,  these  were  perhaps 
Neither  greater  nor  less 

Than  their  fellows,  —  each  had  on 
A  very  white  dress, 

And  both  had  short  tails, 
And  a  neck  like  an  S. 

The  morning  was  genial, 

The  water  was  still, 
And  each  with  her  heart 

On  the  end  of  her  bill 
Began  telling  secrets, 

As  geese  sometimes  will. 

"  All  ganders  are  vulgar," 

One  said,  <c  all  so  low 
That  one  can't  respect  them  ; 

My  dear,  do  you  know 
I  am  really  going 

To  marry  a  crow  !  " 


168  SNOW-BERRIES. 

"  A  crow  ! "  cried  the  other  one, 

Slanting  her  eye : 
"  What !  one  of  those  black  things 

That  swim  in  the  sky  ? 
How  strange  it  would  be 

To  go  swimming  so  high  ! 

"  But  are  you  sure,  darling, 
(Though  't  is  n't  for  me 

To  question  your  wisdom,) 
That  you  shall  agree  ? 

I  Ve  heard  say  that  crows 
Have  their  nests  in  a  tree  !  " 

"  And  what  if  they  do,  dear  ? 

Should  that  make  you  doubt 
My  wisdom  ?  "     "  No,  darling, 

My  fears  were  about 
The  poor  little  goslings,  — 

Might  they  not  fall  out  ?  " 

"  Fall  out  of  their  own  nest 
Ah,  where  could  you  go 

To  find  such  a  foolish  fear  ? 
Do  you  not  know 

That  the  carefullest  bird 
In  the  world  is  the  crow  ? 

"  And  when  he  shall  have  young 
To  quicken  his  care, 


A   GOOSE  AND  A   CROW.  169 

Do  you  think  he  will  leave  his  nest 

Out  of  repair  ? 
Or,  pray,  do  you  think  that 

A  crow  is  a  bear  ? 

"  Why,  only  this  morning, 

The  one  I  propose 
To  marry  (be  sure, 

He 's  the  kindest  of  crows) 
Assured  me  that  I  should  do 

Just  as  I  chose  ! 

"And  so  if  I  don't  like 

My  nest  in  a  tree, 
Inasmuch  as  he  means 

To  defer  thus  to  me, 
I  will  come  down  and  build 

On  the  ground."     "  If  that  he 

"  Continue  his  deference 

When  you  are  matched," 
Said  the  wiser  goose,  "  and  if  when 

Discords  are  hatched, 
He  shall  have  no  sharp  claws 

Nor  your  eyes  to  be  scratched  !  " 

"  I  see,"  said  the  first  goose, 

Receiving  amiss 
The  warning,  "  that  you,  madam, 

Envy  my  bliss,  — 


1TO  SNOW-BERRIES. 

Good  morning."     The  last  word 
Was  almost  a  hiss. 

They  married,  this  stranger  pair, 
For  better  or  worse, 

And,  being  opposed 

In  their  natures,  of  course, 

They  quarrelled,  —  she  left  him, 
Brought  suit  for  divorce,  — 

And  charged  him  with  saying 
A  goose  was  a  goose, 

Also  with  most  cruel 
Neglect  and  abuse, 

And  with  being  black,  —  all  true, 
But  no  sort  of  use  ! 

And  so  they  are  living,  — 
He  high  in  his  tree, 

Misanthropic  as  ever 
A  crow  was,  and  she 

Decrying  the  courts 

That  won't  grant  a  decree. 

He  says  to  his  friends 

He  was  not  understood,  — 

Says  he  would  n't  get  married 
Again  if  he  could  ; 

And  she  says  he  lies, 

For  he  knows  that  he  would. 


PART    VI. 

THE  MAN  WITH  A  STONE  IN  HIS 
HEART. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  STONE  IN  HIS  HEART. 

ONCE,  in  the  suburb  of  a  beautiful  village, 
which  in  our  story  we  will  call  Heatherford, 
there  lived  an  old  woman  whose  only  wealth  was 
her  garden  and  her  little  son  Elijah,  or  Ligie,  for 
that  was  the  pet  name  which  the  fond  mother  gave 
her  boy.  No  cottage  in  all  the  village  was  bright 
er  and  prettier  with  pots  of  flowers  and  tidy  keep 
ing  than  that  belonging  to  Ligie's  mother.  In 
deed,  it  was  no  unfrequent  thing  to  see  rich  peo 
ple  stop  their  carriages  and  look  into  the  garden, 
where  the  finely  cultivated  vegetables  looked  al 
most  as  well  as  the  flowers  that  fringed  the  beds 
where  they  grew.  At  the  foot  of  the  garden,  which 
sloped  to  the  south,  a  spring  broke  out  of  a  green 
wall  of  grass,  and,  escaping  from  the  shadow  of  a 
willow-tree  that  grew  there,  ran  crookedly  away, 
shining  and  laughing  as  far  as  you  could  see.  No 
corn  had  blades  so  thick  and  BO  green  as  that 
which  Ligie  planted  and  hoed,  and  no  poppies 
were  so  large  and  so  red  as  those  fringing  his 
cornfield. 

Sometimes  after  sunset  Ligie's  mother  might  be 


174  SNOW-BERRIES. 

seen  walking  down  the  clean  paths  between  the 
lady-slippers  and  the  lilacs,  talking  to  her  child  in 
a  voice  low  and  soft,  and  at  other  times  gathering 
rose-leaves  or  hops  in  her  white  apron,  scaring  the 
birds  that  went  early  to  bed,  and  making  them 
sing  their  good-night  songs  anew.  When  the 
dew  came  there  was  contention  between  the  rose 
bushes  and  the  hop-vines  as  to  which  smelled  the 
sweeter,  and  Ligie  and  his  mother,  as  they  went  up 
and  down  the  paths,  could  never  decide  it ;  the 
bees  loved  the  roses  best,  but  the  birds  swung 
on  the  hop-vines,  and  sung  in  the  hop-vines  the 
oftenest. 

Often  Ligie's  mother  praised  the  industry  and 
skill  of  her  little  son ;  but  she  loved  him  more 
than  the  beautiful  garden.  It  is  probable  that  the 
people  who  admired  the  blossoming  bean-vines  and 
the  waving  corn  saw  only  in  Ligie  a  homely  little 
gardener ;  but  to  his  mother  no  marigold  was  so 
bright  as  his  head,  and  no  violet  so  blue  as  his 
eyes,  and  the  spring-water  running  away  in  sun 
shine  was  to  her  music  less  pleasant  than  his 
laughter. 

As  Ligie  grew  older,  however,  it  was  less  and 
less  often  she  heard  this  pleasant  music ;  for  the 
boy  grew  silent  and  thoughtful,  and,  pitiful  to  re 
late,  more  and  more  discontented,  —  sometimes, 
indeed,  he  would  forget  the  work,  and  wander 
away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  dreams. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  STONE  IN  HIS  HEART.   175 

Every  day  the  garden  seemed  narrower,  and 
every  day  his  thoughts  flew  higher  and  more  dis 
contentedly  away.  Grass  was  seen  to  grow  in 
places  from  which  it  had  been  carefully  kept  in 
former  times,  the  raspberry-vines  to  lop  untied, 
and  the  strawberries  to  blush  more  and  more 
faintly,  as  Ligie  bent  over  them  less  and  less 
often. 

Many  a  time  he  leaned  on  his  hoe-handle,  and, 
gazing  wistfully — I  am  afraid  enviously  —  after 
some  gay  equipage,  wished  himself  anywhere  away 
from  his  mother's  little  garden,  and  out  of  sight  of 
her  poor  little  house.  He  wished  there  were  no 
gardens  in  the  world,  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
that  he  might  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find 
his  pillow  a  pillow  all  of  gold  ;  for  he  thought  idle 
ness  and  money  were  the  greatest  blessings  that 
could  come  to  anybody,  and  desired  most  of  all 
things  to  wear  fine  clothes,  and  to  ride  horses  that 
were  sleek  and  galloped  over  the  country  fleet  as 
the  wind. 

"  My  dear  son  is  sick,"  thought  the  good  mother 
of  the  discontented  boy,  and  she  gave  him  time 
and  times  to  rest  from  his  work,  and  baked  cakes 
for  him,  and  made  him  soft  beds,  and  kissed  and 
petted  him  very  tenderly.  But  Ligie  had  been 
always  used  to  her  loving  care,  and  received  it  as 
he  did  the  air  and  the  other  common  blessings  of 
his  life. 


176  SNOW-BERRIES. 

One  day,  when  the  customary  meal  of  bread  and 
milk  was  set  before  him,  he  went  away  from  the 
table  without  so  much  as  breaking  the  bread ;  he 
said  to  his  mother  he  was  sick,  but  in  his  heart  he 
thought  if  he  could  not  have  meat  and  honey  he 
would  not  eat  at  all.  Discontented  with  his 
mother,  with  himself,  and  with  everything,  he 
cast  himself  on  the  ground  by  the  spring  beneath 
the  willow ;  but  the  murmur  of  the  waters  could 
not  silence  the  murmur  in  his  heart,  and  the  hedge 
of  bean-vines  near  by  was  not  strong  enough  to 
keep  away  wicked  thoughts ;  his  hot  hands  wilted 
the  cool  grass  on  which  they  lay,  and  his  hot  brain 
withered  and  blackened  all  that  came  into  it. 

He  saw  a  good  many  boys  dressed  in  fine  clothes, 
and  with  shining  curls  down  their  shoulders,  rid 
ing  by  in  splendid  coaches ;  and  some  of  them 
held  up  their  white  hands  tauntingly  when  they 
saw  his  tawny  ones  lying  on  the  grass,  —  some 
even  sneered  at  his  garden,  and  said  they  had 
much  better  ones  at  home.  Among  the  other 
passers,  however,  there  came  one  day  an  old  man 
that  looked  exceedingly  sad,  and  who  was  terribly 
bowed  down,  and  who,  when  he  saw  Ligie,  called 
to  his  coachman  to  stop ;  and  when  his  prancing 
horses  stood  still,  champing  their  silver  bits,  spoke 
to  him  in  words  so  friendly  and  so  strange  that  he 
knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  And  no  wonder 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   STONE   IN    HIS   HEART.        177 

Ligie  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it,  for,  among  other 
things,  the  old  man  asked  him  whether  he  would 
not  like  to  be  rich,  and  if  he  would  sell  his  garden 
for  a  piece  of  gold  as  big  as  his  mother's  house. 
Ligie  said  nothing  would  make  him  so  happy  ;  to 
which  the  old  man  replied  that  he  did  not  want 
the  garden,  but  that  he  .would  give  him  all  the 
gold  he  wanted  if  he  would  consent  to  perform  for 
him  a  trifling  service  ;  and  when  Ligie  asked  what 
it  was,  and  learned  that  it  was  only  the  carrying 
of  a  small  burden,  he  readily  agreed  to  go  with 
the  old  man.  It  would  be  easier  than  working  in 
the  garden,  he  thought,  —  0,  anything  would  be 
easier  than  that !  and  then  to  have  all  the  gold  he 
wanted,  —  surely,  he  could  not  suffer,  no  matter 
what  he  had  to  do ;  so,  with  a  bound,  he  sprang 
from  the  grass  and  into  the  coach ;  the  door  closed, 
the  silver  latch  shut  with  a  snap,  and  his  mother's 
house  was  hid  from  him  forever.  At  first  he  cared 
very  little  about  this ;  fortune  was  his  and  the 
great  world  before  him ;  could  he  not  buy  a  great 
palace  if  he  chose,  and  why  should  he  fret  about 
a  poor  little  cottage  in  a  scarcely-heard-of  village  ? 
And  as  for  the  garden,  why,  he  should  be  glad 
never  to  see  it;  and,  for  all  he  knew,  his  riches 
would  procure  him  the  pleasure  of  walking  in  the 
king's  garden,  and  his  roses  and  hops  lie  supposed 
were  poor  affairs  compared  with  the  king's  roses 

8*  L 


176 


SNOW-BERRIES. 


and  hops ;  probably  lie  should  see  birds  as  big  as 
eagles  before  nightfall,  —  birds  that  would  make 
the  little  brown  twitterers  at  home  stay  there  for 
shame  ;  and  he  was  surprised  as  they  rode  on  and 
on  to  meet  no  such  birds,  and  to  see  no  prettier 
flowers  than  he  had  left  at  home. 

But  one  thing  surprised  him  more  than  the 
fact  of  meeting  no  birds  as  big  as  eagles,  —  the 
old  man  by  whose  side  he  rode  gave  him  no  bur 
den  to  carry.  At  last  he  ventured  timidly  to  sug 
gest  it,  for  he  feared  he  was  not  earning  his  pleas 
ure.  "  By  and  by,"  said  the  old  man,  and  that 
was  all. 

Directly,  however,  he  began  to  be  secretly  glad 
that  110  burden  was  given  him,  and  to  say  in  his 
heart,  "  Perhaps  the  old  man  will  forget  it  alto 
gether,  and  I  have  the  gold  all  for  nothing "  ;  for 
when  one  bad  thought  got  into  his  mind,  a  thou 
sand  others  ran  in  behind  it. 

"  What  a  good  thing  I  have  done,"  he  kept  say 
ing,  as  they  went  along  ;  "  everybody  that  sees  me 
will  envy  me,  and  won't  that  make  me  proud  and 
happy !  " 

That  night  he  slept  in  a  richly-furnished  cham 
ber,  where  perfumes  that  seemed  to  him  sweeter 
than  roses  loaded  the  air,  and  where  a  brilliant, 
light  burned  at  the  head  of  the  bed  he  slept  on, — 
a  bed  greatly  softer  than  the  one  he  had  left  at 
home. 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   STONE   IN   HIS   HEAET.        179 

In  the  morning  a  rich  repast  was  served  to  him 
on  shining  plate  ;  he  had  not  only  meat  and  honey, 
but  wine,  and  stronger  drink  than  wine. 

The  second  day  an  immense  distance  was  trav 
ersed  ;  and  once  or  twice,  when  the  motion  of  the 
coach  grew  tiresome,  Ligie  thought  he  heard  a 
voice  in  him  saying,  "  You  might  as  well  have 
stayed  at  home,  little  boy ! "  And  each  time  he 
drowned  it  by  inquiring  of  the  old  man  whether 
he  should  not  now  take  the  burden  agreed  upon. 
"  By  and  by,"  the  old  man  said,  and  that  was  all. 
"  He  is  a  very  strange  man,"  thought  Ligie  ;  and, 
turning  to  look  at  him,  he  perceived,  for  the  first 
time,  that  there  was  no  smile  in  his  face  and  no 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  that  his  skin  was  dried  like 
parchment  and  wrinkled  as  though  it  was  drawn 
over  dry  bones.  His  hair  was  very  white,  and  it 
seemed  to  Ligie  as  though  it  had  been  dead  a  long 
time.  Happening  to  touch  one  of  his  fingers,  he 
found  it  so  cold  that,  shivering,  he  shrank  away. 
Then  first  the  old  man  smiled,  —  a  grim,  sarcastic 
smile,  as  if  the  child's  motion  were  one  he  was  well 
used  to,  and  expected. 

Ligie  feared  he  had  offended,  and  the  mysterious 
voice  said  to  him  very  plainly  now,  "  You  had  bet 
ter  have  stayed  at  home."  "  No,  no,"  replied  Li 
gie,  "  I  am  glad  I  came  away  " ;  but  they  were  only 
words,  and  the  feeling  of  gladness  was  not  in  his 


180  SNOW-BERRIES. 

heart.  Then  came  the  thought  of  his  mother,  and 
with  it  a  pain  shot  through  his  bosom,  —  a  pain 
that  was  not  only  sharp,  but  hot  as  fire.  "  If  you 
please,  sir,  I  will  take  the  burden,"  he  said ;  "  I 
am  getting  tired  of  doing  nothing."  The  old  ma;i 
smiled  again,  and  answered,  "  By  and  by,"  and 
that  was  all. 

Day  after  day  they  travelled  so  together,  —  the 
old  man  silent  and  sad,  and  the  boy  growing  impa 
tient,  and  tired  of  the  everlasting  motion  and  noise 
of  the  close-shut  coach  in  which  they  rode.  Night 
after  night  he  slept  in  a  soft  bed,  and  morning  after 
morning  was  served  with  dainties  more  dainty  than 
he  had  ever  imagined  ;  but  after  a  few  weeks  he 
began  to  think  of  the  plain  fare  at  home  with  re 
gret.  Then  the  voice  laughed,  and  said,  "  Fool 
that  you  were  to  come  away  !  "  and  this  time  poor 
Ligie  could  make  no  answer. 

And  day  after  day  he  asked  the  old  man  to  allow 
him  to  carry  the  burden  agreed  upon,  and  day 
after  day  the  old  man  replied,  "  By  and  by,"  and 
that  was  all.  - 

At  last  the  rolling  and  swinging  of  the  coach 
made  him  sick,  the  healthful  color  went  from  his 
cheek,  and  all  the  strength  he  used  to  have  seemed 
to  forsake  him.  The  time  was  come  that  people 
looked  enviously  upon  him  as  he  rode  along ;  but 
so  far  from  gratifying,  it  but  added  to  Ligie's  dis- 


THE   MAN   WITH   A    STONE   IN    HIS    HEART.        181 

comfort ;  no  one  thought  of  giving  him  love  and 
sympathy  now,  he  could  very  well  afford  to  do 
without  them,  so  they  who  saw  him  believed.  Poor 
Ligie  !  the  less  he  was  pitied,  the  more  he  pitied 
himself;  and  so,  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week, 
ke  and  the  old  man  journeyed  on  and  on,  search 
ing  for  pleasure  which  they  never  found.  So  weary 
grew  Ligie  at  length,  that  he  resolved  to  quit  the 
old  man,  who  had  never  given  him  the  proposed 
burden,  but  still  said,  "  By  and  by,"  whenever  re 
minded  of  it ;  and  one  day,  seeing  him  asleep,  and 
his  gray  hair  fallen  low  about  his  eyes,  the  wretched 
child  softly  unlocked  the  coach-door,  and  made 
haste  to  be  gone,  or  tried  to  make  haste,  for,  to  his 
horror,  he  found  that  it  was  with  the  greatest  diffi 
culty  he  could  move  at  all.  His  limbs  were  as 
limbs  asleep,  and  his  back  was  doubled  down  al 
most  like  the  old  man's  back. 

"  So  ho  !  "  exclaimed  his  mysterious  companion, 
"  you  repent  your  bargain,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  am 
sorry,  but  a  bargain  is  a  bargain  ;  I  never  fail  to 
fulfil  mine." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  "  said  Ligie  ;  "  have  I 
not  been  with  you  the  longest  year  that  was  ever 
made,  and  where  is  the  burden  I  was  to  carry  ?  I 
can't  live  this  way  any  longer,  for  doing  nothing  is 
the  hardest  work  I  ever  did." 

Then  the  old  man  laughed  aloud,  and  said,  "  My 


182  SNOW-BERRIES. 

son,  you  have  the  burden  already  ;  it  is  that  that 
weighs  you  down." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  answered  Ligie ;  and  he  unfolded 
his  arms  to  convince  the  old  man  that  he  had  no 
burden  ;  but  he  only  shook  his  head  incredulously, 
and  added,  "  You  have  it  concealed  ;  it  is  the  way 
rich  people  carry  burdens." 

Ligie  was  now  angry,  and  opened  his  clothing 
even  to  his  bosom,  to  convince  the  old  man  that  he 
concealed  nothing. 

"  You  have  it  for  all  that,"  was  the  reply  ;  "and 
because  of  it  you  cannot  lift  yourself  up." 

Then  Ligie  grew  pale,  and  trembled,  saying, 
"  How  can  I  have  a  burden  which  I  cannot  see  ?  " 

"  Is  pain  the  less  certain  because  you  cannot  see 
it  ?  "  the  old  man  said.  "  I  did  not  stipulate 
whether  you  were  to  carry  the  burden  in  your 
arms,  or  on  your  head,  or  in  your  heart" ;  and  he 
smiled  a  smile  half  bitterness  and  half  sadness  as 
he  spoke. 

Then  came  the  truth  crushing  through  Ligie' s 
senses,  —  the  burden  was  in  his  heart ;  and  cover 
ing  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  cried  a  long  while. 

"  In  mercy,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  gave  you 
little  by  little ;  but  it  was  none  the  less  sure,  and 
i  By  and  by  '  has  come." 

The  low  voice  never  spoke  so  clearly  as  it  spoke 
now,  saying.  "  0  mistaken  youth,  you  have  sold 


THE  MAN   WITH   A   STONE   IN   HIS  HEAKT.       183 

your  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage  !  "  "0  ter 
rible,  terrible  voice,  why  do  you  torment  me  ?  " 
said  Ligie  ;  and  the  voice  answered,  "  Such  is  my 
work." 

After  a  season  of  despair,  however,  Ligie  began 
to  imagine,  very  foolishly,  that  strong  drink  and 
strong  pleasures  would  dissolve  the  stone  which  he 
was  persuaded  had  been  wickedly  gotten  into  his 
heart.     Without  sorrow  on  the  part  of  either,  he 
and  his  friend  —  if  friend  he  might  be  called  — 
took  separate  ways.     True  to  his  foolish  imagin 
ings,  he  saw  dances,  and  heard  music,  and  drank 
wine,  and  stronger  drink  than  wine,  and  bought 
great  houses  and  much  land,  gazed  on  fine  pictures, 
some  of  them  painted  by  the  greatest  artists  in  the 
world  ;   but,  through   all,  Ligie  remembered  his 
mother's  little  house  and  garden  with  painful  re 
gret,  and  over  all  he  heard  the  low  voice  reproach 
ing  him.     He  even  came  to  walk  in  the  king's  gar 
den,  and  to  speak  familiarly  with  princes  ;  but  they 
seemed  to  him  jiot  unlike  other  men,  and  even  for 
their  praises  he  felt  none  the  better,  but,  while 
they  smiled,  often  found  his   thoughts   travelling 
away  to  the  obscure  village  of  Heatherford,  and 
when  he  drank  wine  it  seemed  to  him  not  so  sweet 
as  the  cool  water  of  his  mother's  well. 

All  his  childish  dream  was  fulfilled,  —  he  had 
waked  to  find  his  pillow  a  pillow  of  gold ;  but  he 


184  SNOW-BERRIES. 

would  gladly  have  given  it  for  the  pillow  of  com 
mon  down  which  his  mother's  hands  used  to  make 
so  pleasant ;  nevertheless,  something  held  him 
back.  Was  he  ashamed  to  have  his  rich  friends 
know  that  he  was  born  in  a  low,  little  house,  and 
that  his  mother  was  a  poor  woman  ?  I  am  afraid 
so. 

Years  and  years  went  by,  and  the  little  gardener 
was  a  little  gardener  no  more  ;  and  thicker  than 
the  years  crowded  upon  each  other  crowded  the 
wrinkles  in  his  face  ;  and  before  the  pleasure  he 
sought  was  found,  his  hair  grew  white  as  the  frost, 
and  his  step  slow  as  the  sloth. 

Celebrated  waters  he  plunged  into,  and  hired 
with  much  gold  physicians  of  great  repute  to  treat 
his  malady,  which,  in  spite  of  all  their  skill,  grew 
only  the  worse  ;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  Ligie  some 
times  that  the  stone  in  his  heart  was  grown  to  be  a 
mountain. 

And  all  the  night  and  all  the  day  the  voice  within 
him  said  to  him,  "  Go  home,  Ligi$  "  ;  and  all  the 
night  and  all  the  day  Ligie  said  to  the  voice,  "  At  the 
new  year,  or  in  the  spring-time,  or  when  the  leaves 
fall,  I  will  go."  And  still,  as  he  sailed  in  vessels  or 
rode  on  cushions,  his  prayer  was  for  the  feet  of  his 
lost  youth  and  the  strength  of  his  lost  youth,  to 
.walk  as  he  used  to  do.  Often  he  tried  to  walk, 
feeling  his  way  along  with  a  stick  ;  but  he  fancied 


THE   MAN  WITH   A   STONE  IN  HIS   HEART.       185 

he  frightened  the  birds  and  spoiled  their  songs,  for 
sure  was  he  they  sang  not  as  they  used  to  sing 
among  the  sweet-smelling  hops  of  his  mother's  gar 
den.  The  little  boys  that  were  laughing  and  kick 
ing  up  the%  dust  stopped  their  playing  as  he  came 
near,  and  gazed  on  him  with  eyes  full  of  fear,  in 
stead  of  sunshine.  If  flowers  fringed  the  wayside, 
their  tops  seemed  dusty  and  dry,  and  not  dewy  and 
sweet  as  they  used  to  be.  The  young  girl  who  sat 
singing  her  ditty  at  the  window,  when  she  saw  his 
frowning  visage  and  bent  form,  drew  in  her  breath 
and  her  music,  and  hastily  pulled  down  the  sash. 

The  very  cattle  ran  away  from  him,  stopping  not 
till  the  width  of  the  meadow  in  which  they  pas 
tured  was  between  themselves  and  him.  The  hens 
left  their  peeping  broods  and  crept  away,  afraid  to 
fly  at  him  as  they  did  at  the  urchin  who  plagued 
them. 

Seeing  the  sorry  effect  he  had  upon  bird  and 
beast,  he  grew  more  and  more  dissatisfied,  and  the 
burden  in  his  heart  weighed  heavier  and  heavier 
upon  him. 

Something  like  the  shadow  of  gladness  passed 
over  him,  when  in  a  valley  before  him  he  saw  rising 
the  spires  of  a  quiet  village.  "  I  will  abide  here," 
he  said,  "  and  try  if  the  air  will  not  soften  this  ter 
rible  stone."  So  he  hired  a  house,  and  physicians, 
and  attendants,  and  made  himself  a  home,  but 


186  SNOW-BERRIES. 

found  little  of  the  peace  he  sought.  Consternation 
ran  up  and  down  the  streets,  when  it  was  known 
among  the  people  that  an  old  man  with  a  stone  in 
his  heart  would  thenceforth  abide  among  them,  for 
the  physicians  pronounced  his  malady  not  only  in 
curable,  but  the  most  infectious  of  all  diseases  ;  so 
the  attendants  he  had  went  away  from  him,  and  all 
his  gold  could  not  hire  others  in  their  places.  In 
vain  he  sought  religious  comfort ;  the  clergyman 
to  whom  he  applied  was  of  the  opinion  that  Ligie 
had  not  only  a  stone  in  his  heart,  but  that  he  had 
a  demon  there,  into  the  bargain  ;  and  this  was  cer 
tainly  poor  consolation. 

Then  the  doctors  resolved  that  the  poor  man 
should  not  go  abroad  any  more,  for  there  was  never 
such  fright  as  the  stone  and  the  demon  occasioned. 

When  the  doomed  m'an  was  informed  of  the  ver 
dict,  he  said  it  was  just  and  right,  and  he  further 
more  admitted  that  when  he  listened  he  could  hear 
a  voice  within  him  that  condemned  him.  Then 
the  wise  men  recommended  entire  abstinence  from 
all  exertion  of  mind  and  body,  and  constant  lis 
tening  to  the  condemning  voice,  with  as  much 
meditation  on  the  stone  as  possible. 

And  all  the  people  exclaimed,  "  Yea,  verily, 
these  physicians  are  wiser  men  than  till  now  we 
knew  them  to  be  !  "  and  their  fame  stood  before 
them  like  a  light  that  made  common  people  almost 
afraid. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  STONE  IN  HIS  HEART.   187 

Poor  Ligie  submitted  patiently  to  the  treatment, 
and  also  to  separation  from  all  human  society,  and 
found  all  the  satisfaction  he  had  in  hugging  his 
woes.  However,  he  grew  no  better.  Sometimes 
he  would  creep  to  his  windows,  and  indulge  in  the 
harmless  occupation  of  looking  into  the  sunshine  ; 
but  this  habit  was  no  sooner  discovered  than  it  was 
resolved  by  the  people  that  the  man  with  the  stone 
in  his  heart  should  be  put  in  irons  for  the  first  of 
fence,  and  that  for  the  second  he  should  be  impris 
oned  for  life. 

"  He  has  already  offended  twice,"  said  one  of  the 
most  fearful ;  and  upon  himself  he  took  the  admin 
istration  of  justice,  and,  stealing  to  the  old  man's 
house  in  the  night,  secured  the  door  with  a  ponder 
ous  bar. 

It  was  dreadful  to  hear  the  prisoner's  moans 
after  that ;  no  one  who  heard  them  once  could  be 
induced  to  go  near  him  again  ;  so  he  lay  moaning 
and  groaning  to  himself.  Some  of  the  more  super 
stitious  believed  it  was  the  demon  that  cried,  and 
not  the  man  himself ;  but  there  were  some  who 
thought  a  stone  in  the  heart  was  enough  to  make 
anybody  moan. 

"  We  shall  have  to  break  his  heart,  and  so  free 
it  from  the  stone,"  said  the  surgeon  ;  and  but  for 
an  accident  it  is  likely  the  cruel  suggestion  might 
have  been  carried  out. 


188  SNOW-BERRIES. 

An  old  woman,  residing  in  the  suburbs  of  the 
town,  remarkable  for  nothing  but  industry,  mod 
esty,  and  strong  common  sense,  chanced  to  come 
near  this  old  man's  house  one  stormy  midnight,  as 
she  was  returning  home  from  having  dressed  a 
corpse.  She  had  gone  abroad  so  little,  and  been 
so  given  to  minding  her  own  affairs,  that  she  had 
never  once  heard  of  the  old  man  with  a  stone  in  his 
heart,  and  came  fearlessly  to  the  very  door.  The 
moon  shone  bright  and  friendly  through  the  chinks, 
and  as  she  peeped  in  she  saw  the  glitter  of  two 
eyes  that  looked  like  the  eyes  of  a  famished  wolf. 

In  vain  the  prisoner  cried  out  to  her  to  flee  away, 
saying  he  had  a  great  stone  in  his  heart,  and  was 
possessed  of  a  demon  ;  the  assertion  sounded  so 
much  like  nonsense  to  the  ears  of  the  old  woman, 
she  refused  to  go,  and  furthermore  the  glitter  of  the 
man's  eyes  told  plainly  enough  that  he  was  starving  ; 
so,  notwithstanding  his  entreaties  that  she  should 
leave  him  to  his  fate,  and  save  herself,  she  made 
haste  to  unbar  the  door,  and,  walking  straight  to 
the  straw  where  he  lay,  bade  him  arise  and  go  with 
her. 

At  first  he  refused,  saying  that  he  had  a  stone  in 
his  heart,  and  a  demon  in  his  bosom,  and  that  to  go 
with  her  was  impossible. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  I  see  how  it 
is,"  for  she  knew  that  too  much  brooding  on  light 


THE    MAN    WITH   A   STONE   IN    HIS    HEART 


THE   MAN   WITH   A    STONE   IN   HIS   HEART.       189 

afflictions  will  sometimes  produce  heavy  ones,  and 
was  resolved  to  humor  his  disease  in  order  to  cure 
it.  "  I  know  a  great  witch  who  can  cure  you," 
she  said  ;  "  there  is  not  a  doubt  of  it ;  she  has 
brought  many  back  to  health  and  happiness,  whose 
minds  were  gone  far  astray,  and  whose  feet  were 
near  the  borders  of  the  grave.  Rise  quickly,  and 
come  along  with  me." 

The  old  man  lifted  himself  on  one  elbow,  and 
said  he  had  tried  all  remedies  in  vain,  and  that  he 
had  no  courage  for  a  new  trial  ;  but  though  he 
said  he  had  no  courage,  he  smiled  faintly,  and  felt 
a  very  little  courage. 

"  Ah,  it  is  not  such  medicine  as  you  have  been 
used  to  with  which  the  witch  cures,"  said  the  old 
woman  ;  "it  is  with  a  charm  known  only  to  her 
self,  said  to  be  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world." 

She  spoke  hopefully  and  cheerfully,  and  the  man 
answered,  "  Let  us  go  to  her  at  once,"  and  he 
arose,  and  looked  with  shining,  hungry  eyes  close 
in  the  old  woman's  face  ;  and,  taking  his  limber, 
weak,  and  worthless  hands  in  hers,  she  led  him  out 
of  his  miserable  den,  and  they  took  their  way  to 
gether  through  the  village,  and  struck  into  a  sweet- 
scented  clover-field,  lighted  by  the  clearest  and 
brightest  of  moons. 

As  they  went  along,  Ligie  told  of  the  many 
things  he  had  suffered  in  the  hope  of  cure,  and 


190  SNOW-BEREIES. 

that  withal  he  had  grown  worse  and  worse,  till  he 
had  come  to  be  the  miserable  creature  she  beheld. 

At  first  the  old  woman  was  obliged  to  walk  very 
slowly  ;  but  gradually  she  quickened  her  steps,  and, 
unaware,  her  companion  quickened  his,  too ;  and 
as  he  walked  faster  and  faster  he  straightened  him 
self  more,  and  when  they  reached  the  nice  little 
home  where  the  woman  lived  he  stood  nearly  up 
right. 

The  first  care  of  the  nurse  was  to  feed  her  pa 
tient  with  plain  but  wholesome  and  nutritious  food  ; 
and  this  done,  she  made  him  a  bed,  very  clean  and 
comfortable,  where  he  slept  soundly  till  morning. 

His  first  inquiry  on  waking  was  for  the  witch, 
and  his  first  desire  was  for  an  immediate  inter 
view. 

"  The  witch  lives  a  good  way  off,"  said  the  nurse, 
"  and  to  leave  home  for  so  long  a  journey,  I  must 
needs  make  some  preparation  ;  and  if  you  will  con 
sent  to  help  a  little,  only  a  very  little,  I  shall  be 
ready  so  much  the  sooner." 

Ligie  said  he  had  not  done  a  chore  for  years  ; 
nevertheless,  he  would  attempt  whatever  task  she 
would  set  for  the  sake  of  being  brought  so  much 
the  sooner  to  the  witch.  So  the  old  woman  took 
him  to  the  garden,  and  set  him  to  weeding  the 
beds  there  ;  and  as  he  worked  he  gained  strength 
to  work,  so  before  noon  the  garden-beds  were  as 
clean  as  they  could  be. 


THE   MAN   WITH    A    STONE   IN   HIS   HEART.        191 

When  the  old  woman  came  out  and  saw  what  he 
had  done,  she  was  well  pleased,  and  said  she  had 
never  found  so  good  a  gardener  in  her  life  ;  and 
she  added,  "  We  will  soon  be  ready  for  the  journey 
at  this  rate." 

Ligie  was  a  good  deal  tired  and  a  little  hungry 
with  the  work,  and  when  the  nurse  brought  a  plat 
ter  containing  bread  and  fruit  and  meat,  and 
placed  it  on  a  bench  that  stood  in  a  shady  place,  he 
quite  forgot  in  the  enjoyment  of  it  the  stone  in  his 
heart ;  and  after  the  meal  he  forgot  it  for  an  hour 
longer  in  the  pleasant  sleep  that  came  to  him  as  he 
lay  on  the  cool,  grassy  bed  that  Nature  had  made 
for  him. 

Toward  sunset  the  old  woman  appeared,  and  di 
rected  her  patient  to  cut  off  all  the  ends  of  the 
bean-vines  that  were  trailing  from  the  tops  of  the 
poles  toward  the  ground. 

When  Ligie  hesitated,  and  said  he  could  not  lift 
himself  up  for  such  work,  she  encouraged  him  to 
believe  that  he  might  straighten  himself  sufficiently 
for  the  task,  and  assured  him  of  the  impossibility 
of  making  the  journey  to  the  witch's  house  till 
the  bean-vines  were  attended  to.  Hearing  this,  he 
lifted  himself  up,  and  began  to  clip  off  the  ends  of 
the  bean-vines.  They  were  sweet  with  blossoms, 
reminding  him  of  the  old  garden  at  home  ;  and  in 
the  interest  of  his  occupation,  he  thought  nothing 


192  SNOW-BERRIES. 

about  the  terrible  crook  in  his  back,  and  when  at 
last  he  felt  for  it,  it  was  gone. 

He  began  now  to  think  his  hostess  was  the  witch 
who  had  charmed  the  stone  out  of  his  heart,  and 
from  that  time  manifested  no  unwillingness  to  do 
whatever  she  bade.  . 

Day  by  day  she  set  him  harder  tasks,  professing 
all  the  time  when  such  a  tree  was  felled,  and 
such  a  field  ploughed,  or  the  orchard-trees  pruned, 
or  some  other  task  accomplished,  she  would  jour 
ney  with  him  to  the  witch's  house.  But  the  work 
stretched  itself  out  before  Ligie  as  far  as  he  could 
see ;  for  while  he  gathered  apples  he  saw  the  corn 
ripening,  and  of  itself  breaking  out  of  the  husk  ; 
and  as  he  thought  more  about  his  work  he  thought 
less  about  the  witch,  and  finally  began  to  conclude 
there  was  no  such  thing  in  the  world  as  a  witch. 

At  last  the  heap  in  the  crib  was  rounded  up  with 
the  last  golden  ears,  the  oxen  turned  loose  among 
the  corn-stalks,  and  a  bright  wood-fire  made  on  the 
hearth  of  the  good  old  woman's  house.  In  the 
middle  of  the  floor  the  table  was  spread  with  pump 
kin-pies,  and  apple-tarts,  and  sweetcakes,  and  all 
the  variety  which  a  country  housewife  knows  so 
well  how  to  provide.  All  the  friends  of  the  old 
woman  had  been  invited  to  rejoice  with  her  over 
the  restoration  of  her  patient ;  but,  strange  to  say, 
where  one  came  there  were  a  dozen  who  stayed 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   STONE   IN   HIS   HEART.        193 

away,  for  they  now  feared  the  harmless  old  woman 
as  much  as  they  had  formerly  feared  Ligie.  If  he 
was  cured  of  stone  in  the  heart,  she  must  be  a  witch, 
that  was  all ;  so  hard  is  it  for  us  to  believe  in  the 
virtue  of  simple  things,  and  that  we  have  only  to 
wash  and  be  clean.  If  Ligie  had  done  some  great 
thing,  then  it  would  have  been  easy  to  believe. 

"  0,  if  my  mother  were  here  to  rejoice  with  me, 
how  happy  I  should  be !  "  sighed  Ligie,  as  he  con 
cluded  reflections  not  unlike  what  I  have  written  ; 
"  for  though  I  am  old  and  worn  and  weary,  I 
might  yet  do  much  good  ;  but  how  much  more 
might  I  have  done  if  in  youth  I  had  improved  my 
opportunities,  instead  of  wasting  them  in  vain  and 
foolish  dreaming  and  repining,  —  dreaming  of  im 
possible  things,  and  repining  that  good  things  were 
not  the  best  things  !  " 

Then  in  his  mind  he  made  a  picture  of  his 
mother's  little  house  he  had  once  so  come  to  de 
spise,  and  of  the  garden  he  had  grown  so  tired  of, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  king's  garden  was 
not  half  so  beautiful,  that  Eden  itself  could  not 
have  been  so  beautiful.  In  the  light  of  memory 
the  loveliness,  which  in  reality  he  had  failed  to  see, 
came  out  clear  and  distinct,  and  he  marvelled  that 
he  could  have  received  such  blessings  and  been  so 
unconscious  of  them. 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  in  the  anguish  of 


194  SNOW-BERRIES. 

repentance  he  wept  aloud,  saying  over  and  over, 
"  0,  to  have  back  my  lost  youth  !  "  Then  it  was 
he  seemed  to  hear,  between  his  sobbings,  a  voice 
like  his  mother's,  saying,  "  My  son,  my  dear,  lit 
tle  son!" 

A  thrill  of  joy  ran  through  him,  which  was  as 
if  all  the  heavens  had  opened,  and  in  the  rapture 
of  the  moment  he  awoke,  —  for  he  had  been  all 
this  time  in  a  dream,  —  awoke  to  find  himself 
little  Ligie,  and  to  see  the  sunset  shadows  on  the 
water  of  the  spring,  that  flowed  from  its  fountain 
under  the  willow-tree,  by  which  he  remembered 
to  have  thrown  himself  at  noonday.  But  when  he 
was  fully  awake  the  thrill  of  joy  kept  still  thrilling 
through  his  bosom ;  it  was  not  all  a  dream ;  he 
heard  the  sweet  voice  of  his  mother  still  saying, 
"  My  dear,  little  son,"  and  all  the  beauty  he  had 
seen  shining  so  clearly  in  the  light  of  memory  he 
saw  shining  all  round  about  him. 

Over  a  bank  of  golden  clouds  the  sun  was  peep 
ing  and  smiling  his  good-night,  the  birds  were 
hushing  in  the  hop-vines  and  under  the  roses,  and 
under  his  feet  the  grass  was  cool  and  green  as  it 
could  be.  In  the  distance  stood  dark,  leafy  woods, 
with  cows  and  sheep  and  lambs  feeding  along  the 
hills. 

But  the  brightest  spot  of  all  the  picture  was  the 
little  house  under  the  apple-tree,  and  with  the 


THE   MAN   WITH   A   STONE   IN   HIS   HEART.        195 

morning-glory  at  the  window,  and  the  red  creep 
ers  over  the  porch,  where  stood  his  mother  smil 
ing,  and  calling,  "  Ligie,  my  son,  my  dear,  little 
son !  " 

You  may  be  sure  he  lingered  not  long  even  for 
the  sake  of  the  beautiful  landscape,  glorified  as  it 
was  by  the  last  red  light  of  the  day,  and  the  first 
white  light  of  the  stars,  but  ran  at  once  up  the 
smooth  path  between  the  lilacs  and  lady-slippers, 
answering,  "I  am  coming,  mother,  I  am  com 
ing!"  it  was  as  if  he  had  new  feet  and  new  hands 
and  new  senses  ;  as  if  a  new  world  had  been  made 
about  him ;  as  if,  indeed,  a  great  stone  had  been 
taken  out  of  his  heart.  There  was  the  table  spread 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  cakes  and  apple- 
tarts  and  meat  and  milk,  just  as  he  had  dreamed, 
and  his  hair  was  all  unfaded,  and  his  limbs  strong 
and  full  of  health. 

What  more  could  he  have  ?  Nothing,  nothing. 
Ligie  felt  this,  and  clasping  his  hands,  he  bowed 
his  head,  and  said,  "  How  good  God  is,  and  how 
unmindful  and  bad  we  are  !  " 

And  seeing  how  his  spirit  was  changed,  his 
mother  inquired  of  him  what  had  happened ;  and 
when  he  told  her  all  his  dream,  and  his  thoughts 
previous  to  the  dream,  they  laughed  and  wept  to 
gether,  and  wished  that  everybody  could  have  such 
a  dream,  and  learn  by  it  to  appreciate  the  blessings 


196  SNOW-BERRIES. 

they  have,  rather  than  mourn  for  those  they  have 
not ;  and  to  work  with  willing  hands  and  a  reso 
lute  will  in  whatever  field  their  portion  may  be 
cast. 


CATY    JANE. 

ONE  summer  morning,  as  I  walked 
Along  a  shady  lane, 
I  met  a  black-eyed  little  girl, 
Whose  name  was  Caty  Jane. 

She  had  a  pretty  basket  full 
Of  blossoms  blue  and  white, 

And  when  I  asked  her  where  she  went, 
She  hid  her  face  from  sight ; 

And  sitting  where  the  clover  grew 
So  sweet  and  thick  and  red, 

She  said,  "  I  had  a  sister  once 
Who  loved  me,  and  is  dead ; 

"  And  yonder,  to  the  slope  on  which 

You  see  the  willows  wave, 
I  'm  going  with  my  flowers,  for  there 

Is  little  Annie's  grave. 


CATY   JANE.  197 

"  Her  goodness  and  her  gentleness 

I  oftentimes  forgot ; 
She  never  said  an  unkind  word, — 

I  wish  that  I  had  not. 

"  We  had  a  play-house  once,  beside 

This  very  shady  lane  ; 
I  wish  it  never  had  been  made," 

Said  little  Caty  Jane. 

"  'T  was  carpeted  with  grass,  and  weeds 

Were  piled  to  make  the  walls  ; 
The  beds  were  spread  with  burdock-leaves, 

And  mother  gave  us  dolls. 

"  We  had  some  broken  cups,  and  had 

Some  skeins  of  thread,  I  know, 
And  sometimes  we  pretended  we 

Were  women,  and  would  sew  ; 

"  And  often  I  would  visit  her, 

And  she  would  come  again, 
And  make  believe  to  visit  me," 

Said  little  Caty  Jane. 

"  One  day,  when  cloudily  the  sun 

Was  going  down  the  hill, 
Dear  Annie  said,  '  We  must  go  home/ 

The  wind  was  growing  chill. 


198  SNOW-BERRIES. 

"  And  when  she  wrapt  her  apron  round 
Her  neck  and  shoulders  bare, 

I  laughed,  and  called  her  grandmamma, 
And  said  it  was  n't  fair 

"  That  she  should  run  away,  nor  care 

For  playing,  nor  for  me. 
1 0  Caty  Jane,'  said  Annie,  then, 

'  I  'm  cold  as  I  can  be. 

"'It  seems  as  if  no  fire  nor  quilt 
Could  make  me  warm  again.' 

And,  sure  enough,  they  never  did,7' 
Said  little  Caty  Jane. 

"  She  said  that  more  and  more  her  head 

Kept  aching  all  the  while, 
And  from  her  hands  the  playthings  fell, 

But  still  she  tried  to  smile. 

"  And  when  the  moon  came  up  and  shone 

So  cold  across  the  floor, 
She  said  that  we  would  never  play 

Together  any  more. 

"  '  Well,  if  you  feel  so  very  bad, 

Do  let 's  go  home,'  said  I, 
'  That  you  may  have  a  chance  to  make 

Your  will  before  you  die.' 


CATY  JANE.  199 

"  And  so  I  ran  and  left  her  in 

Our  play-house  by  the  lane, 
And  ran  the  faster  when  she  called, 

*  Don't  leave  me,  Caty  Jane/ 

"  And  sitting  by  the  warm  wood-fire, 

In  little  Annie's  chair, 
I  fell  asleep,  and  woke  in  fright,  — 

My  sister  was  n't  there. 

" 4  She  must  be  in  a  neighbor's  house,' 

My  mother  said ;  but  I 
Hid  in  her  lap  my  face,  and  cried 

As  hard  as  I  could  cry  ; 

"  And  told  her  I  had  left  her  in 

Our  play-house  by  the  lane  ; 
And  there  they  found  her,  sure  enough," 

Said  little  Caty  Jane, 

"  Lying  upon  the  frozen  ground, 

As  cold  as  cold  could  be ; 
And  when  I  called  her  pretty  names 

She  did  not  speak  to  me. 

"  But  with  pale  cheek  and  shut  eyes  lay 

Upon  our  little  bed. 
And  when  the  sun  arose  at  morn," 

Poor  mourning  Caty  said, 


200  SNOW-BERRIES. 

"  I  called  her  to  get  up,  and  kissed 
Her  cheek  to  make  her  wake  ; 

And  when  she  did  not  speak  nor  smile, 
I  thought  my  heart  would  break. 

"  I  brought  my  playthings  and  my  dolls, 
And  laid  them  on  the  bed, 

And  told  her  they  were  hers  to  keep," 
Poor  little  Caty  said. 

"And,  waiting  there  in  fear  and  doubt, 
They  softly  kissed  my  brow, 

And  told  me  I  must  live  without 
My  sister  Annie,  now. 

"  O  then  I  knew  how  dear  she  was," 

Said  little  Caty  Jane, 
"  And  thought  if  she  could  be  alive, 

And  play  with  me  again, 

"  I  'd  say  a  thousand  things  to  her 

That  I  had  never  said. 
'T  was  easy  work  to  think  kind  words 

To  say  when  she  was  dead." 

And  with  her  eyes  brimful  of  tears, 
She  went  along  the  lane  ; 

No  sister  now  had  she  to  love,  — 
Poor  little  Caty  Jane  ! 


THE   STREET   BEGGAR.  201 

Seeing  how  very  long  she  stayed 

By  Annie's  lonesome  bed, 
I  thought,  If  other  little  girls, 

"Whose  sisters  are  not  dead, 

Could  know  how  blest  they  are,  and  see 

The  sad  look  Caty  wore, 
They  never  would  be  heard  to  speak 

A  cross  word  any  more. 

For  we  must  do  to  others  just 

As  we  would  be  done  by, 
If  we  would  learn  to  live  in  peace, 

Or  peacefully  to  die. 


THE    STREET    BEGGAR. 

SHAKE  not  your  glossy  curls  with  a  "  No,' 
As  you  sit  in  the  warm  and  rosy  glow 
'Twixt  your  hearth  and  pictured  wall ; 
Ah,  my  lady,  you  do  not  know 
How  folk  feel  with  their  feet  in  the  snow, 
And  no  bright  fire  at  all. 

A  sixpence  !  that  you  will  never  miss ; 
See  what  a  baby  you  have  to  kiss, 

Honor  and  wealth  to  prove  ; 
Ah,  my  lady,  you  cannot  guess 
9* 


202  SNOW-BERRIES. 

How  folk  feel  in  a  night  like  this, 
With  no  little  child  to  love. 

From  house  to  house  I  have  gone  all  day,  • 
"  Nothing  for  beggars,"  is  all  they  say, 

Though  a  banquet  waiting  stands  ; 
Ah,  you  never  have  known  the  way 
Poor  folk  feel  when  their  heads  are  gray 

And  palsy  shaking  their  hands. 

For  sake  of  charity  say  not  "  No." 

I  am  almost  famished,  —  I  cannot  go,  — 

I  must  steal  or  starve,  —  and  why  ? 
Because,  my  lady,  you  do  not  know 
How  folk  feel  with  their  feet  in  the  snow, 

Turned  out  from  your  fires  to  die. 


EVIL    CHANCE. 

WHEN  falls  the  hour  of  evil  chance.  - 
And  hours  of  evil  chance  will  fall,  - 
Strike,  though  with  but  a  broken  lance,  — 
Strike,  though  you  have  no  lance  at  all. 

Shrink  not,  whate'er  the  odds  may  be,  — 
Shrink  not,  however  dark  the  hour,  — 

The  barest  possibility 

Of  good  deserves  your  utmost  power. 


PLEA   FOR    THE   BOYS.  203 


PLEA   FOR   THE    BOYS. 

YOUNG  men  must  work,  and  old  men  rest,- 
They  have  earned  their  quiet  joys  ; 
And  everywhere,  from  east  to  west, 
The  boys  must  still  be  boys. 

They  do  not  want  your  larger  sight, 

Nor  want  your  wisdom  grim  : 
The  boy  has  right  to  the  boy's  delight, 

And  play  is  the  work  for  him. 

The  idle  day  is  the  evil  day, 

And  work  in  its  time  is  right ; 
But  he  that  wrestles  best  in  the  play 

Will  wrestle  best  in  the  fight. 

Then  do  not,  as  their  hour  runs  by, 

Their  harmless  pleasures  clip  ; 
For  he  that  sails  his  kite  to  the  sky 

May  sometime  sail  a  ship. 

And  soon  enough  the  years  will  steal 

Their  mood  of  frolic  joys  ; 
So  keep  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel, 

And  let  the  boys  be  boys. 


204  SNOW-BERRIES. 


WORK. 

DOWN  and  up  and  up  and  down,  — 
Over  and  over  and  over,  — 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  bright  red  clover ! 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall, 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 
And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 

With  hand  on  the  spade  and  heart  in  the  sky, 

Dress  the  ground  and  till  it ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  brown  and  dry, 

Turn  out  the  golden  millet ; 
Work,  and  your  house  shall  be  duly  fed, 

Work,  and  rest  shall  be  won ; 
I  hold  that  a  man  had  better  be  dead 

Than  alive,  when  his  work  is  done ! 

Down  and  up  and  up  and  down, 

On  the  hill-top,  low  in  the  valley ; 
Turn  in  the  little  seed,  dry  and  brown, 

Turn  out  the  rose  and  the  lily. 
Work  with  a  plan,  or  without  a  plan, 

And  your  ends  they  shall  be  shaped  true ; 
Work,  and  learn  at  first-hand,  like  a  man, 

The  best  way  to  know  is  to  do  ! 


COUNSEL.  205 

Down  and  up  till  life  shall  close, 

Ceasing  not  your  praises  ; 
Turn  in  the  wild,  white,  winter  snows, 

Turn  out  the  sweet,  spring  daisies. 
Work,  and  the  sun  your  work  will  share, 

And  the  rain  in  its  time  will  fall, 
For  Nature,  she  worketh  everywhere, 

And  the  grace  of  God  through  all. 


COUNSEL. 

HOUGH  sin  hath  marked  thy  brother's  brow, 

Love  him  in  sin's  despite, 
But  for  his  darkness,  haply  thou 
Hadst  never  known  the  light. 

Be  thou  an  angel  to  his  life, 

And  not  a  demon  grim  ; 
Since  with  himself  he  is  at  strife, 

O  be  at  peace  with  him. 

Speak  gently  of  his  evil  ways, 

And  all  his  pleas  allow  ; 
For  since  he  knows  not  why  he  strays 

From  virtue,  how  shouldst  thou  ? 

Love  him,  though  all  thy  love  he  slights, 
For  ah,  thou  canst  not  say 


206  SNOW-BERRIES. 

But  that  his  prayerless  days  and  nights 
Have  taught  thee  how  to  pray. 

Outside  themselves  all  things  have  laws, 

The  atom  and  the  sun  ; 
Thou  art  thyself,  perhaps,  the  cause 

Of  sins  which  he  has  done. 

If  guiltless  thou,  why  surely  then 
Thy  place  is  by  his  side,  — 

It  was  for  sinners,  not  just  men, 
That  Christ  the  Saviour  died. 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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